


A Winter's Tale

by Masked_Man_2



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001), Aksuma - Elizabeth E. Wein, The Oracle Trilogy - Catherine Fisher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christian Holidays, Christmas Fluff, Churches & Cathedrals, Creepy, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drinking Games, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Fever, Fluff, Gambling, Games, Geoff is a little shit, Holidays, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Introspection, Lots of British, Lots of French, Lots of Scottish, Marriage, Mentions of Sex, Multi, Music, Musing, New Year's Eve, Pagan Festivals, Religious Content, Riots, Roland is a sledge, Sexual Content, Ship Chaucer with all the things, Sickfic, Singing, Sledding, Smoking meat, Snow and Ice, Snowball Fight, Snowballing, Snowed In, Wat is a little shit, What Have I Done, Winter, ale, barfights, lambswool, mumming, not the sexual kind, once - Freeform, one-day marriage, only a little, soule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of wintery one-shots, centered on our merry band of five: Will, Roland, Wat, Geoff, and Kate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Will's Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! So...I’ve never really written anything like this before, but I plan to continue this story until January 6, the end of the 14th century holiday season. 
> 
> So, each chapter will be a different little story; all will relate to winter or the holidays, as the 24th comes closer (the beginning of the 12 days of Christmas). I will try to be as historically accurate as possible, but...I might take some liberties.
> 
> Of course, we’re starting off with Will. Enjoy!

For Will, December was a month of wind and smoke. 

When the autumn’s hunting ended, his father would haul the dead beasts, that had long since been frozen and dried in the frigid Cheapside winds, and cured with salt, into the old smokehouse behind their cottage. Will would run after him, gathering chips and twigs of alder wood in his small, scrawny arms; he would pile the wood into the ancient, rusting smoke box, watching it fill with an ever-growing anticipation. 

“Look at all the chips, Father,” he would cry, the gamey taste of smoked venison and grouse already on his tongue. His father would peer into the box, his seamed brown eyes twinkling with mirth, and would ruffle his son’s sandy curls in approval, and say, “Good work, lad.”

When the smoke box was filled, the thatcher and his son would strike the match together, the smell of burning alder and roasting meat filling their noses as they held the guttering flame to the wood. They would race outside, shutting the door quickly to keep the smoke inside. The air’s icy breath would sting their cheeks, and the thick, soft snow would cake onto their boots, seeping through the cracks and numbing their toes. 

Weeks would pass, and Will would run to the smokehouse every day, hoping his father would let him inside to check the meat’s progress...but he would always be taken away. “Not today, Will,” his father would tell him gently. “These things take time.”

To keep his son’s mind off the smoking meat, his father would bring him to work with him, letting him hold his tools and climb up with him to fix the roofs that had been damaged by winter’s tempests. Will would gaze, awed, about the streets as they walked, marveling at the decorative greenery, the bustle of all manner of folk, and the festive atmosphere. The smells of wood smoke, cider, and roasting meat permeated the air, and Will would grin widely; the signs of the coming holidays would fill his young heart with unparalleled delight.


	2. Roland's Memories

The savory flavors of crushed walnuts, dried currants, nutmeg, and finely chopped beef danced across Roland’s tongue, and the heady scents of warmed milk and spiced wine filled his nose. The sounds of laughter, loud chatter, and cheerful shouts hummed pleasantly in his ears. The off-key singing of twenty tipsy men echoed through the large cottage, made almost melodic by the calming haze of spirits, food, and firelight. The very walls exuded an air of inviting comfort. 

With a needle and thread in one hand, and a slice of fruitcake in the other, Roland felt a profound contentment warm his heart. Though he had a deep respect for honoring Christ’s birth, he felt that family was the true reason to celebrate...and right now, surrounding by his large, gregarious family, he could think of no place he would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mincemeat pie was a popular holiday dish. In the Middle Ages, it was typically made with chopped beef or meat, dried fruit, sugars, spices, and nuts.
> 
> The ‘warmed milk and spiced wine’ is posset, a popular drink. Milk was heated, and wine, beer, or citrus juice was added to curdle it a bit. It could be sweetened or spiced.


	3. Wat's Memories

_The shouts and whoops of men and boys strike terror into the hearts of London’s gentler, weaker-willed souls. Rough Cockney voices jeer and rage, their temerity amplified by drink, their high spirits kept aloft by their twelve-day respite from toil and duty. They careen through the streets, drinking, gambling, carousing, cackling, and fighting. Their lusty pagan natures are unearthed on these nights, and no power on Earth can stop them._

 

  The rousing revelry suited the young Wat rather well, and he hollered and catcalled with the best of them. His green mind had been made wild by the strong ale he’d been swigging all night, and he delighted in the lack of thought and reckless abandon that it wrought.

 

  “Go on then, Wat!” his friends had cried. “Try some of the strong stuff, boy! ‘Tis a night of revels! Let your tight arse go!”

  
  Fong them for calling him a tight-arse; what true tight-arse would go running around pell-mell with a damned _mob_ , chatting up the long-haired footpad beside him like they were best mates and heaving rocks at uppity lords’ windows? _They_ were the tight-arses, those lords. Not him, no, sir. He was raising a regular Hell in London’s stinking streets...and he’d get to do it tomorrow night, too. He’d sleep off the sickness from the ale; he wouldn’t have to worry about _working_ , or any of that boring shite. The Twelve Nights were the best times, for him...maybe not for that prat whose door had just been smashed….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of this is a lie; people really did get the Twelve Days of Christmas off. Christmastide was a time of revelry, merrymaking, feasting, drinking, and generally being whack jobs. Riots truly did occur, also.


	4. Kate's Memories

 

  The trogwynd wailed eerily over the cold, barren moors, rattling the skeletal wreath of of mistletoe and ivy that hung crookedly on the warped wood of the smithy door. Kate drew the tartan blanket tightly about her thin shoulders, shivering uncontrollably despite the heat of the forge. There was fear in the dreich night air, blown around by the wind; there were spirits abroad this night. She was sure of it.

 

  Her Da, shaping horseshoes on his iron anvil, was oblivious to the haunting noises, but Kate couldn’t block them out. The rattling grew louder and louder as the wind picked up, and her sharp wean’s ears could pick up other, wilder sounds: the plaintive howls of the _Baisd Bheulach_ , the tortured cries of the _Slaugh_ , the wailing of the _Caoineag_. The hellish creatures seemed to surround the lonely smithy, as though they could smell the living souls within and were hungry for their flesh….

 

  Kate whimpered and crouched down, making herself small, burrowing her small body in wool and shadow. If _they_ were coming for anyone, ‘twas her. Little, gullible weans were _their_ favorite victims; that’s what all the stories said.

 

  “Yer awrite, Katie?” Kate jumped and let out a small scream at the sound of her brother’s voice, but Conall immediately knelt and gathered her in his strong arms, resting his wind-chapped lips on her thick dark hair. “Och, A’m sairy; A didnae mean t’ frigh’en ye.  I’s jus’ me, hen. Keep th’ heid.”

  

  Kate threw her arms around Conall’s lean form and buried her face into his chest, ashamed of the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “Th- th’ Caoineag’s screamin’,” she whispered, her high voice small with fear. “A’m feart, brither. They’re comin’ fer me. They been snatchin’ bairns all nigh’, an’ now they’re gon’ get me!” She broke off with a choked gasp, unable to hold back her hiccuping sobs.

  “Now ye haud yer wheesht, Katie,” Conall mumbled fiercely. “Dinnae greet. They cannae get an’where near ‘ere. Tha’s wha’ th’wreath’s fer, aye? It keeps ‘em away.

  “But-”

  “Dinnae be feart, Katie lass.” Conall leaned back slightly, and took Kate’s small, tearstained face in his large, scarred hands. “I won’ let ‘em get ye. Yer safe wi’ me ‘n’ Da, in ‘ere. A swear it.”

  
  Kate huddled close to her brother, his warmth as reassuring as that of any forge fire. Outside, the trogwynd blew, and the moor creatures moaned and screeched, but Kate felt safe in her brother’s arms, and knew, now, that she was being an eejit. _They_ couldn’t come in here, not into this protected house. No, Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. A pure like Scots! Sorry; Scottish slang is really fun to use. With that in mind….
> 
> Translation time!
> 
> Trogwynd: Though not technically a Scottish term, the trogwynd is a strong, howling wind; it means ‘strange winds’  
> Baisd Bheulach: A shape-shifting demon that lived in the Odail Pass on the Isle of Skye and howled at night  
> Slaugh: Malevolent, extremely dangerous Highland spirits, also called the Unforgiven Dead  
> Caoineag: A banshee-like clan spirit that wailed at the base of waterfalls when someone was about to die  
> Da: Father  
> Wean: Child  
> Yer awrite: You’re alright  
> Conall: Strong wolf  
> Och: Oh  
> A’m sairy: I’m sorry  
> Didnae: Didn’t  
> Hen: A term of endearment for a female  
> Keep the heid: Stay calm  
> Feart: Afraid  
> Brither: Brother  
> Bairn: Baby  
> Haud yer wheesht: Be quiet  
> Dinnae greet: Do not cry  
> Cannae: Cannot  
> Aye: Yes  
> Eejit: Idiot  
> A pure like Scots: I really like Scottish  
> Guid cheerio the nou: Good-bye
> 
> I AM NOT SCOTTISH! I don’t know how accurate any of this is, and I tried to write in dialect, which is actually really hard. If anyone’s confused, don’t hesitate to ask for clarification or offer corrections.
> 
> For some reason, I always thought Kate might have a brother, who’d show her the ways of the forge at a young age. Hence, Conall was born.
> 
> Mistletoe and ivy, along with holly, laurel, and other plants, were common in wreaths of the time, as they were thought to repel evil spirits, which were stronger in winter. Mistletoe is actually a Celtic word that means ‘all-heal,’ and it was one of the sacred plants of the Druids; they used it to repel spirits and bring good luck.
> 
> I’ll see you all tomorrow, and after that, I’m out of ideas, so please, send some! Guid cheerio the nou!


	5. Geoff's Memories

 

  The spacious room, with its tasteful, embroidered drapes and rich mahogany furnishings, was _too. Bloody. Hot_.

 

  A bright, crackling fire was roaring and snapping out tongues of flame in the gray stone hearth. The ornate windows had been tightly shuttered, locking out the cold, snowy winter air. Heavy blankets of wool and fleece had been piled onto the oversized- ostentatious, as Kathy would say- bed. He and Kathy and the maids had done all they possibly could...but Mother would not stop shivering.

 

  Netta, with her thick, unruly braids (yellow like the midmorning sun) and guttural Germanic accent, had tried to explain it to him...simply, mind: he was a small child yet, and her English left much to be desired.

 

  “ _Fieberhitze_ ,” she’d said, in her exasperated way. “Comes with _Erkaltung. Verstanden_?”

 

  Did he understand?... It was an excellent question. Worrying his lip with his sharp teeth, young Geoffrey tiptoed toward the ostentatious bed, placing his pale, ink-stained one over Mother’s, which rested limply atop her ample bosom. Her hand- plump and elegant and long-fingered- dwarfed his tiny, thin one, and it was too warm, too damp for his liking. Too still.

 

  _Mother shouldn’t be this still_ , he thought, his unease mounting. _She should be standing and laughing, rolling her eyes at me and Kathy, helping Cook in the kitchen and burning all the food. She should be talking about town, talking with all of her friends_. She should _not_ have been lying prostrate, her eyes closed, her mind and body dulled and addled by fever. It simply was not _right_.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Restlessness, when coupled with a child’s profound discomfiture and sorrow at a mother’s unfortunate infirmity, was a very unpleasant feeling indeed. It crashed over him like a wave, a stinking wave that slopped hot and cold and damp and black. There was an electric sting in his blood that screamed at him to move, run, do anything other than stand here at this bedside like...like...like a...bloody statue of a bloody four-year old boy who was not meant to be so inert!...

 

  But he could not leave Mother! For God’s sake, she was _ill_ ; she might be _dying_! Netta hadn’t said anything about _that_ , had she? She had never told him that Mother would be well again! What if she was sick with something more than a cold? What if she had...influenza, or...the ague...or... _God forbid_...the plague? What if... _what if_ ….

 

  A sudden, choking flash of panic seized him, and Geoffrey immediately threw himself at Mother’s prone form, gripping her shivering, fever-wracked body with hands that _would not stop shaking_ , gasping as sobs ripped themselves from his throat.

 

  “Don’t die, Mother,” he whispered, fast in the throes of terror, hating himself for feeling such fear, for being unable and _unwilling_ to let it go…. “Don’t leave us! We need you; Father, Kathy, and I, we need you! Don’t...don’t...let th-this _bloody fever kill you! DON’T!_ ”

 

  His voice rose to a hysterical pitch, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower it, couldn’t bring himself to _care_ , until he felt too-warm hands flutter up, stroke his golden hair, and catch hold of his scrawny arms with unparalleled tenderness.

 

  “What gave you that idea, silly boy? I have a few good years in me yet.” Mother’s voice was too weak...but she was _talking_ , and _awake_ , and that surely was a good sign...wasn’t it? “Calm down, my little bird. It will take more than a little cold to defeat your old mother.”

  “But….” Geoffrey could hear her words, of course he could, but he couldn’t make his racing heart believe them! “You’re...you’re so….”

  “It’s alright, Geoffrey,” Mother murmured wearily. “I’ll be well in several days.”

  “Will you be well enough for the Navity feast?” he asked after a moment, feeling the thorns of his irrational fear lose their grip. “Father...Father says that all of his family will be there, and...you must be, too….”

  Despite her weakness, Mother laughed a bit, though that laugh quickly turned into a harsh cough. “ _Nativity_ , my little bird. And yes; I will be.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” Mother’s soft thumbs ghosted over his cheeks, wiping away the treacherous tears that had the audacity to slip down his sharp face. “Come now, love. Enough tears.” Then, slowly, she began to sing. “ _In dulci jubilo, nun singet und seid froh_!”

 

  The gentle music was like a soothing balm, and Geoffrey felt his thin lips curl into a tentative smile. “ _Unsers Herzens Wonne leit in praesepio und leuchtet als die Sonne matris in gremio_ ,” he continued softly.

 

  And together, the verse’s final noted floated out like drops of silver into the too-warm room. “ _Alpha es et O_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined that Geoff would have an easy, loving relationship with his mother, and with his flightiness and lofty ideas and quick tongue, I felt that ‘little bird’ would be an appropriate nickname.
> 
> Adult Geoffrey is expansive, aberrant, and gregarious, but he’s also very observant and passionate, which is, in my opinion, what makes him such an enthusiastic writer. He feels all emotions very keenly, and notices every little detail. I didn’t think he’d be much different as a child; if anything, his passions would be even more wild, and his observations more outrageous. That’s why I gave him his little meltdown moment: to show how passionate he is. He can be very charming and sophisticated, too: even as a kid.
> 
> Netta is a spontaneous OC; she’s an Austrian maid. If anyone wants to use her, you’re welcome to, but please ask me first. I don’t take kindly to plagiarism. Kathy is Katherine Chaucer, Geoff’s older sister, Mother is...well, Mother: Agnes Copton. 
> 
> The real Geoffrey Chaucer was a pretty rich guy, and his family had close connections with England’s nobility and royalty. His first ‘job,’ I think, was working as a noblewoman’s page: a job for young boys, hence, his extremely young age. I tried to stick to his roots, despite the fact that they go slightly against the meager evidence presented in the movie. 
> 
> ‘In dulci jubilo’ is a very well-known carol from the 14th century. It is a macaronic carol, meaning it combines Latin with some other language: German, in this case. 
> 
> Translation time!   
> Fieberhitze: German for ‘fever’  
> Erkaltung: German for ‘cold,’ as in, common cold  
> Verstanden: German for ‘do you understand’  
> In dulci jubilo: In sweet jubilation   
> Nun singet und seid froh: Now sing and be joyous  
> Unsers Herzens Wonne leit in praesepio und leuchtet als die Sonne matris in gremio: Our heart’s bliss rests in a manger and shines like the sun in his mother’s lap  
> Alpha es et O: You are the Alpha and Omega
> 
> The Feast of the Nativity is celebrated on December 25th.


	6. The Tree

 

   _ **CRASH**_! “Ah, bloody _‘ell_! I swear t’ God, I’m gonna _throw_ this fongin’ thing into the-”

  “ _Shh_ , Wat! You’ll wake ‘em up!”

  “I don’ give a witch’s _teat_!”

  “ _Wat_!”

  “ _Mon dieu, c’est énorme_! How will it fit?”

  “I can’t see….”

  “Tha’s cos it’s bloody _nighttime_ , ya manky git!”

   _THUMP_. “ _OW_!”

  “Ya crashed in’a me, ya fongin’ twat!-”

  “ _WAT_! Put him down; you’re not helping!”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  It had originally been Kate’s idea. When Will and Jocelyn had disappeared into their tent, she had watched the with a small, gentle smile, feeling a surge of sisterly affection that blossomed slowly into joy at the the sight of the passionate lovers. She truly wanted their bond to last, hoped to God that it would. She _hoped_ …. Had it not been she, after all, who had said that love should end with hope? And was not the start of winter the time when hope was needed most?

 

  Will and Jocelyn needed a symbol, she thought: a testament to that hope. “A tree,” she murmured aloud, realization dawning slowly. “They need a tree of hope.”

 

  The remark had been meant for her hearing alone, but keen-eared Geoff, who had been watching the lovers from the shadows in pensive silence, turned to her quickly, his sharp blue eyes inquisitive.

 

  “A tree of hope?” he asked, his expression thoughtful and more than a little skeptical.

  Kate started at the sound of his low voice, but nodded, feeling her excitement grow. “An evergreen,” she explained, smiling softly. “To the Northmen, that’s a symbol of hope.”

  “For winter to turn to spring,” the writer mused, running his long, slender hands through his mussed blond hair. Suddenly, he looked up, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained enthusiasm. “For love to last through the night of winter, into the dawn of spring!” he burst out, running over to Kate and gripping her hands tightly. “Kate, that’s brilliant! By God, we need to tell the others!”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Geoff’s manic energy was contagious, which was how Roland, Wat, Kate, Geoff, and Christiana found themselves in the thick forests of Yorkshire, searching for the perfect ‘lovin’ tree,’ as Wat had deemed it.

 

  “How about this one?” Christiana suggested, running her elegant fingers along the branches of a tiny fir. “ _C’est très joli, non_?”

  “Hrmm.” Wat scowled as he crouched to inspect the tree. “Doesn’ look very jolly t’ me.” Both Christiana and Geoff snorted at that comment. “Anyway,” the redhead continued indignantly. “‘S too fongin’ _small_.”

  “ _Le arbre est la taille parfait_!” the maid replied crossly.

  “No, it bloody well isn’t!” Wat shot back. “A lovin’ tree’s gotta be big enough t’ fit all the love inside it, ay?”

  Geoff whistled appreciatively. “That was astonishingly poetic of you, Wat,” he said, admiration in his voice. “ I’m _genuinely_ proud of you.”

  Wat blushed fiercely, his freckles getting lost in his now-red skin. “Don’ git used t’ it,” he grumbled, ducking his head. With a quick, clumsy turn, he strode purposefully over to a much larger fir. “Now y’see _this_ ,” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “ _This_ is wot yer lookin’ for.”

  Frowning slightly, Kate approached Wat’s tree and stood beside it, shaking her head. “It’s as tall as me, Wat,” she pointed out. “It’s not goin’ t’ fit in the tent.”

  “Pfft, o’ course it is!” Wat scoffed. “We’ve jus’ gotta be _smooth_ ‘bout it.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Evidently, Wat’s definition of ‘smooth’ did not exactly concur with everyone else’s, because he insisted on dragging the tree right into Will and Jocelyn’s tent, rousing the two of them, and letting them admire the gesture ‘under duress,’ as Geoff put it. The writer then went on to bemoan Wat’s lack of appreciation of subtlety, while Kate and Roland firmly overruled his idea. Still, it soon became obvious that _subtlety_ was not a strength the group possessed in abundance.

 

  “Damn it, Wat, watch where you’re goin’!” Roland growled when his hotheaded friend accidentally slammed the top of the tree into a large rock.

  “Hey, why dontcha just shut yer mouth, huh?” Wat asked, raising his flaming eyebrows. “I was the one tha’ cut this bloody thing outta the ground; I deserve a li’l more credit!”

  “Y’weren’t the only one that cut it out, y’know,” Kate reminded him. “We all did.”

  “ _Exactement_ ,” Christiana agreed, brushing splinters disconsolately off her skirt. “And all this was _mademoiselle_ Kate’s idea, _n’est-ce pas_?”

  That, along with the burning glare Kate gave him, shut Wat up rather nicely.

  
  


X X X

  
  
  It took the group nigh on three hours to take the tree into the tent and put it up, placing burning candles between the fragrant boughs and steadying it with an iron stand. The top of the fir brushed the tent’s roof, and it glowed warmly in the cold dark, like a beacon, patiently awaiting the new dawn. A beacon of hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually quite unplanned, but my sister and I decorated our Christmas tree today, so I was struck with this inspiration...as was Kate. That said, I feel like Kate would feel a sort of sisterly love for Will, wanting to protect him, but also wanting to support him in his choice of partner. 
> 
> The tradition of putting up and decorating trees dates back to the Vikings, the Druids, and the Romans. The Vikings, or the Northmen, if you listen to Kate, were the ones to believe that evergreen trees symbolized hope for spring. The Druids decorated oak trees with fruit and candles to honor their gods of light and the harvest. The Romans decorated trees for Saturnalia, the midwinter festival honoring the Persian god Mithras. Other legends involve St. Boniface, Martin Luther, and a woodsman. The modern custom originated in Germany in the early 1600s.
> 
> Translation time! They’re all French. 
> 
> Mon dieu: My God  
> C’est énorme: It is enormous  
> C’est très joli: It is very beautiful  
> Non: No  
> Le arbre est la taille parfait: The tree is the perfect size  
> Exactement: Exactly  
> Mademoiselle: Miss  
> N’est-ce pas: Isn’t that so


	7. Cold Nights

  
  


  The day’s dove-gray clouds, made inky by the shadow of night, grew alarmingly heavy and low around five o'clock. At six, the air became frigid and still; at seven, it began to carry the pure scent of sweet water. By eight o’clock, the sky finally stopped dithering, and slowly but surely, released the snow that it had been holding all day. The fields, forests, and villages of the northern French countryside soon became blanketed in white, and Sir William Thatcher and his frosted, somewhat disgruntled band were eventually forced to halt.

 

  The cart and horses were carefully stowed and tied under one large, green tent, and the other tents were pitched quickly afterward. The air was bitingly cold now, and numb British fingers wasted no time in lighting fires in the tents’ centers, their bodies huddled together shamelessly for warmth.

 

  For propriety’s sake (little though it mattered), the three ladies slept together: Kate and Christiana and Jocelyn in the center. The young noblewoman had one arm slung over Kate’s lithe form (much to the ferris’s chagrin), and was being embraced on the other side by her maid, who was mumbling incoherently in French as she slumbered.

 

  The four men, then, had split the last two tents between themselves, and Will and Roland were quite content in their shared bed. Roland snored like a bear, but Will slept too heavily to care, pressing his lean form up against the older man’s massive bulk with a small, satisfied sigh.

  
  That left Geoffrey and Wat, who were rather less comfortable with their current arrangement than the others. Both were restless in their sleep, and both were blanket stealers, but Wat had a nasty habit of grabbing the wool quilt, tugging it forcefully over himself, and kicking out wildly when Geoff tried to take it back. He flailed his arms and legs, too, and made all manner of strange sounds, leaving the herald to huddle wretchedly at the far edge of the mattress, cursing the red-haired, hot-tempered squire with all the eloquence he possessed as the snow whirled blindingly outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...yeah. Abrupt ending, no plot…. As you can see, I like torturing Geoff, and I’ll be the first to admit that sleeping fluff is one of my vices. I am not ashamed. 
> 
> People really did light fires right inside tents. Noblemen had braziers to light them in, but more humble folk just set them up in the center.


	8. Embroidery

  
  


  The fire burned low as the evening shadows grew long, filling the large tent with a kind of dim light and a smoky heat. The flames cast an amber glow over everything around them, wrapping the tent’s seven inhabitants in a warm, intimate embrace.

 

  The slumbering forms of Jocelyn and Will lay intertwined on one bed, and a twitching, snoring Wat burrowed his face into the neck of a fondly exasperated Kate on the other. ON one side of the fire, Geoff sat huddled in his long coat, hunched over the sheets of parchment on his knees, his pen flying passionately over the pages. Roland and Christiana sat opposite, their bodies touching as they talked and laughed quietly.

 

  Roland held his boots between his thighs; his right hand gripped a threaded needle while his left steadied the soft rabbit fur that he was sewing into the lining. His fleshy cheek rested easily against the top of Christiana’s head, and her long hair hung brown and straight to her hips, tickling his fingers.

  
  Christiana, for her part, held a pair of Jocelyn’s gloves, as well as a length of similar fur, and was lining said gloves with unmatched delicacy. Her low, accented voice whispered teasingly in Roland’s ear as the two of them worked, and the stout squire responded in kind, flattering her and blushing at her compliments in turns as the dying embers illuminated their shared embroidery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally ship Roland and Christiana. They are absolutely adorable together, and if you’ve seen the deleted scene of AKT with Chaucer’s wife, you can see Roland almost flirting with dear Christiana; he asks if she’d like to see some of his other embroidery. Ergo, I just really wanted a night-time scene with the two of them bonding over sewing.


	9. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...the snow we got yesterday turned to ice. All of the trees around my house were literally encased in the stuff, and the roads were a mess. Now, why, you ask, am I talking about ice? Read the title. I HAD to involve ice somehow. :)
> 
> We’re going back in time with this chapter, back to Will, Roland, and Wat’s squire days. Enjoy!

  An ice storm was a _wonderful_ reason to postpone a tournament.

 

  Many of the knights looked suitably disgruntled at the dreary conditions, but Sir Ector burst into hearty laughter when he stepped out of his tent and fell flat on his arse. When the announcement was made, he took one look at his three antsy squires, and told them, in his gruff way, to go about their duties and spend the day as they wished upon completion of them.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Yorkshire was rife with hills, and those hills were now hard and slick with fresh white ice. Roland, Wat, and Will wasted no time in finishing their work- checking that the horses were well, buffing Sir Ector’s armor, and oiling his weapons- and made their precarious way up one of these hills, slipping and sliding as the ice tried to whisk their feet out from under them.

 

  Once they had reached the top, it was a very simple matter, really, to decide what to do: slide right back _down_. They went on their backs, their sides...any surface, really. Wat pushed himself off on his arse, and tumbled headlong into a dead bush, while Roland lay on his ample stomach, letting Will climb onto his back and use him as a sledge.

  
  Down and up and down again, the shouts of the three young squires mixed joyously with the voices of the others present, drowned out by the falling snow and made breathless by the sheer exhilaration of ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do have a knack for weird endings. Honestly, the image I have of Will using Roland as a sled is just too funny. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Squires were young men training to become knights. The movie definitely took some liberties with their station, because a boy in the Middle Ages couldn’t be a squire unless he had served as a page first, and pages were typically nobles. Still, a squire had many duties while training to be a knight: caring for his knight’s horses, keeping his weapons and armor in good order, guarding the knight, waiting at table, running errands, et cetera. 
> 
> I don’t know if an ice storm would cause a postponement of a tournament, but I imagine it would. The conditions would be quite deleterious for the knights, never mind the horses. 
> 
> See you tomorrow! Remember to review, and feel free to submit ideas!


	10. Those Bloody Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really inspired by the weather, in case you can’t tell. So...right off the bat, I’m going to say, I don’t know where this came from. It is in no way indicative of my mood, or that of anyone I know, but it does reflect today’s weather...hmm….
> 
> I’d like to apologize for the gloom of this chapter; I think I’ll be back to lighter stuff tomorrow. Hey, we all need some angst to spice things up a bit. If, however, angsty, slightly depressing musing isn’t your thing, feel free to skip this chapter.

 

  The day was profoundly tenebrific; the sky was heavy and overcast, and the wind blew an icy rain into the the chilled faces of the bedraggled company. That frigid breeze whipped the skeletal branches of the dark, dead against the pregnant sky, lashing them against the clouds with an almost audible scrape. They looked rather like fingers: long, ghoulish fingers that scratched futilely at a veil of twilight.

 

   The dreariness of the day seemed to cast a somber shadow over the herald’s thoughts, and he found himself in a singularly Cimmerian humor, unable to maintain even the slightest semblance of his characteristic levity. No doubt the others had noticed and remarked upon the anachronism, but he could not bring himself to keep up his quillets, could not even bring himself to smile. He felt drained to his very bones, as though the unfortunate lack of sunlight had sapped the life from his entire being.

 

  Damn that heavenly- hellish, more like- power that had thought up the idea of _winter!_ Four parky months of bitter winds, algid temperatures, and bloody _clouds_ that _would not go away of the Devil bid them_!

 

  God’s teeth, was it really too much to ask for God to part those thrice-damned clouds just _once_? After all, humans were His favored creatures, and were humans not creatures of _light_? They needed that radiance, that sacred Apollonian fire! How could He possibly expect them to thrive without it? Why did He punish them so?

  
   _How could the others stand it?_ Why was _he_ doomed to languish in annual melancholy while _they_ carried on, unaffected, as spirited as ever? Was it a writer’s curse, to feel the sadness of the winter-wracked Earth as though it were his own?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet ANOTHER abrupt ending! Okay, I said earlier that I like to torture Geoff...you can see how true that is. On another note, I really like writing in his voice it’s too bloody fun. :)
> 
> Winter depression, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, is a real medical condition, affecting between 4-20% of the population annually. It is thought to be caused by lack of light, which impacts circadian rhythms (the body’s internal clock) and serotonin levels in the brain. Symptoms include changes in appetite, fatigue, irritability, social anxiety and withdrawal, moodiness, hypersomnia (oversleeping), difficulty concentrating, feelings of hopelessness or sadness, and weight gain. 
> 
> I imagine Geoff to be a ‘creature of light,’ as he said; hence, his adverse reaction to a lack of said light. I have no idea if the real Chaucer (or Paul Bettany, the actor), was affected thusly. 
> 
> Um...if anyone is curious about the word ‘Cimmerian,’ look it up; it’s difficult to explain. 
> 
> ‘Parky’ is a British slang term that means ‘rather cold.’ I think the ‘rather’ is rather sarcastic. 
> 
> So...yeah, a bit depressing. I still enjoyed it, though, and I hope you did, too! See you tomorrow!


	11. Fever Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right off the bat, I apologize if this chapter isn’t up to par. I’m sick, and my creative juices aren’t flowing as quickly or as smoothly as I’d like. That said, I did take a page from my book today, as the chapter’s title might tell you. :)

  
  


  Wat’s eyes were closed, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself up near the sun if he opened them, ‘cause he was bloody _hot_ , and bloody _floating_ , to boot! He was wet, too...was it raining? Was he passing through a cloud?

 

  It took a lot more trouble than it was worth to open his eyes, since they seemed to be stuck together, but he finally managed it, only to grimace as bright, dancing lights shot stabbing pains through them. Gawd Blimey, but his eyes, his head, his throat, his whole buggering body ached, and he wondered dully if he’d been run over by a cart and had died. _Too bleedin’ likely…._

 

  Strange shapes and colors swirled about his vision, and potty images drifted past him, enticing in their complete lack of sense: giant tansy cakes riding horses, clutching lances made of quills, watched over by a glowing, faceless figure that spoke seductively in a low, lilting voice. Wat stared at the angel-like thing, goggle-eyed, his buzzing ears struggling to make sense of the spirit’s words...they sounded almost like….

 

  “Wat!”

 

  E _gad_ , how did the fongin’ angel know his name? Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak, but some icy blade jabbed his throat when he tried, and he gave up. He managed to force his heavy limbs to move, though, and walked towards the angel, grabbing its lean, warm body in a tight embrace.

 

  “Well, yer a dishy angel, aintcha?” he slurred... _God_ , he sounded completely arseholed right now, and he didn’t even care….

  “Damn it, Wat, I don’t want your bloody lurgy! God’s _sake_ , why are you even out of bed?”

  “Uh...dunno…” he mumbled, feeling soothed by the angel’s low voice…. Odd, really, how much that voice sounded like the manky writer….

  “Oh, _damn it all_ , you….” The voice trailed off, and the body of the angel pulled sharply away, leaving Wat cold and more than a little put out. “Wat, my... _dear_ fellow, you are talking absolute nonsense right now. I’m going to take you back to bed, all right? Then you can have some lovely coriander tea. How does that sound?”

  “Hmm….” Wat stumbled forward, trying to catch the angel in his arms again. “Don’ wanna drink nothin’....”

  “That’s too bad, mate. You have to.” The angel fell silent for a moment, and finally sighed, stepping forward to grab Wat’s arms gently. “Come on, then,” it said softly. “Back to bed with you.”

  “ _Bugger_ ,” Wat whispered, relaxing into the firm touch. “Tha’ feels nice….”

  “Well, good.” The angel led Wat carefully, half-dragging, half-carrying him, only to drop him lightly onto a soft, cool surface. “There you go. Don’t you dare leave again, and I’ll-”

  “Stay wi’ me?” Wat asked dreamily, feeling the heavy arms of sleep being to wrap around him once more.

  

  The angel sighed again, but the bed depressed under a weight, and a long, warm body stretched out beside him, slinging a lithe arm across his chest. “Fine,” it murmured. “I’ll stay.”

  
  A throb of pleasure hummed through Wat at those words, and he let himself slip into unconsciousness again, as the angel’s touch purged the fever from his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Wat! Still, I warned you it would be weird. 
> 
> Remember how I said in Chapter 8 that I totally ship Roland/Christiana? Well, I ship Wat/Chaucer even more. They LITERALLY have the best chemistry. That said, the ‘angel’ was Geoff, looking out for his delirious friend Wat. 
> 
> I enjoyed using the English slang a little too much...so here are some translations!
> 
> Gawd Blimey: An expression of surprise; a diminutive of ‘God blind me’  
> Potty: Crazy  
> Dishy: Good-looking  
> Arseholed: Extremely drunk  
> Lurgy: Flu
> 
> Um...yeah, that’s about it from me. Night, all!


	12. Tranquility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a request for more Chaucer-musing, so...zagara, this is for you!

  
  


  The midnight air was so silent, so still, that he could hear the soft, muffled taps of the heavy snowflakes as they fell, melting and settling onto the frozen ground and attenuated branches, blanketing the world in white.

 

   _It was so peaceful._ Seated beside the fire-warmed green tent, he felt a remarkable calm wash over him, a calm that had nothing to do with the soporific coolness of the snow. To be sure, the chill winds pierced the layers of leather, fur, and wool that he wore most trenchantly, but Nature’s icy blades were _not_ what froze him where he rested.

  
   _No._ It was the stillness, the enchanting tranquility of the night, that held him so transfixed. Motionless in body and mind, his torpid state evinced a sort of magic in the air: an ancient spell, woven into the feathery white flakes, floating ever so delicately into the very heart of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...that was a little unexpected…fun, though. Oh, for the record, it IS possible to hear snow falling; the air, as our Argus-eyed writer noted, becomes completely still, and if you listen closely, you can hear this faint, damp tapping as the snowflakes hit the ground; it’s marvelous. 
> 
> See you all tomorrow! Remember to review, or else I’ll ask Wat to fong you! Hey, that rhymes. :)


	13. Lambswool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back to Kate! Honestly, writing this one made me kind of hungry, and I hope you’ll understand why by the end!

  
  


  The apples, baking in a warm bath of water spiced with nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon, and sugar, lent a tangy sweetness to the heated air of the tent, a sweetness that tempered the rich, heady scent of the mulling ale and mingled wonderfully with the smoky, crisp bite of toasting bread.

 

  Kate sprinkled a wee bit of the auburn nutmeg over the thick froth that had formed atop the dark ale, breathing in its tea-and-cinnamon aroma with a satisfied sigh. The ale, its beige foam stained copper by the spice, was just about ready, and the apples had cooked down to a thick mush. _Perfit._

 

  “Next crown the bowl full,” she sang softly, ladling the apple mixture into the ale and stirring gently. “With gentle lamb’s wool….” The foam of the lambswool disappeared briefly as she swirled the ladle about, only to simmer and drift back up when she paused.

 

  “Add sugar,” she continued, dropping in a pinch, “nutmeg,” - a bit more wouldn’t hurt - “and ginger.” _Whit for no?_ “With store of ale too; and thus ye must do….” The toast was the final touch, broken and and crumbled over the top of the drink.

  
  _At lang an last_ , the lambswool was done, ready to embrace the Yuletide in full, ready for the others to enjoy. “To make a wassail a swinger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I wasn’t underage, I’d definitely try some of that. :) Och, weel. 
> 
> First of all...more Scottish translation time!
> 
>  
> 
> Wee: Little  
> Perfit: Perfect  
> Whit for no: Why not  
> At lang an last: At long last  
> Och, weel: Oh, well
> 
> Wassail is a Yuletide drink, made from mulled ale, cider, or mead, with sugar, ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg added to spice it up, topped with toast. Lambswool is an Irish version of the drink, made with ale, baked apples, sugar, and spices.
> 
> The name has two potential origins: The name could be taken from the Irish pagan festival Lamas Ubhal, during which a similar drink was imbibed. It could also be taken from the wool-like appearance of the foam atop the ale.
> 
> The song Kate sings is from Robert Herrick’s Twelfth Night; this song was sung while wassailing. Wassailing was the practice of singing and drinking to the health of the cider apples trees of the Twelfth Night, or January 6th: the end of the Christmas season. The ritual was done to awaken the trees and frighten away evil spirits to ensure a good harvest in the coming fall. 
> 
> See you all tomorrow!


	14. Snowballing

 

   _THWACK_! The large white snowball, perfectly formed and thrown, thumped the back of Will’s head stoutly, spraying clumps of snow in every direction.

 

  “Good shot, Wat!” he called cheerfully, laughing at his own expense. The red-headed squire grinned at him cockily from across the field, laughing right along with him, oblivious to the dark figure creeping toward him.

 

  “Damn right i’ was!” he shouted back. “Yer ‘air’s full o’ the- _ACK!_ ”

  “Ye’d best not blether so much, Wat,” Kate scolded calmly, half of a snowball clutched in her gloved hand. The other half had just been shoved unceremoniously into Wat’s open mouth. “Y’could glog flies...or waur.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The previous night’s snowfall had been heavy and wet, and the sight had brought out the child in all of them...save for perhaps Jocelyn, who had elected to simply _watch the snowball fight, despite the others’ cajoling._

  “It looks rather dangerous,” she had said primly. “Besides, I’d rather not take ill simply because I’ve had lumps of snow thrown at my head.”

 

  Will had appeared rather crestfallen at that, but the others had accepted the lady’s wish without comment, and Wat had slapped his friend on the back, telling to “quit bein’ a fongin’ sop.”

 

  “If th’ lady wonts t’be a nesh wimp, let ‘er,” he had scoffed. “‘Er loss.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Her loss, indeed. The remaining six had split into teams: Will, Kate, and Geoff against Wat, Christiana, and Roland. Neither side had bothered to build a fort; they simply went at each other, being careful to avoid unnecessary violence and the hitting of Jocelyn...although, if the occasional snowball _accidentally_ flew a bit too close to her face...no one (save Will, perhaps) minded overmuch.

 

  “Come on, Roland!” Will jeered, smiling widely from his perch on a tree branch above his friend’s head. “What are you waiting for? Go ahead and-”

  “ _Fermez la bouche_ , William!” Christiana murmured, pelting him in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

  “ _Bon travail_ ,” Roland muttered, making the Frenchwoman blush.

  “ _Merci_ ,” she whispered, ducking her head.

  

  Wat, roaring with laughter at Will’s felled form, shook his head in disgust. “Get a room, lovebirds!” he called. “How’re ye doin’ down there, Will?”

  “Oh...God….” Will dragged himself up, shaking his head vigorously to clear it. “ _Shite_ ; that hurt!”

  “Serves ya right, mate!” Wat snorted, stealthily hitting Kate in the arm with a snowball.

  “Now, that’s no way to taunt a foe,” Geoff remarked casually, sneaking up behind Wat, his hand held behind his back.

  “Oh, yeah?” the redhead turned, cocking an eyebrow. “‘Ow d’ya do it, then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know….” Quick as a cat, Geoff brought his hand out faster than Wat could blink. “Like _this_ , maybe?” The snowball he had been hiding flew true, striking Wat right between the legs. Kate whistled appreciatively.

  “Cor _Blimey_ ,” Wat gasped, falling to his knees. “You...you...I’m gonna... _fong_ yer arse t’ _Hell_ ‘n’ back, ya hear? _Damn_ ….”

  “Sorry,” Geoff said unctuously. “You should’ve been looking.”

  “ _Tu es une brute_!” Christiana exclaimed, rushing to her fallen comrade. On the far side of the field, Jocelyn winced in sympathy.

  “ _Je suis désolée...mais...est un morceau de le jeu, non?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m torturing Will and Wat today, apparently. Honestly, that was seriously fun. I’d love to get into a snowball fight with these guys.
> 
> The tradition of ‘snowballing’ is one that is centuries old, and enjoyed worldwide...wherever there’s snow, at least.
> 
> Um...I think my dislike for Jocelyn came through here...more than a little...then again, I can’t see her snowball fighting. I really can’t. 
> 
> Translation time! 
> 
> Soit: French for ‘either’  
> Blether: Scottish for ‘talk’ or ‘chatter’  
> Glog: Scottish for ‘swallow’  
> Waur: Scottish for ‘worse’  
> Nesh wimp: British slang for a pathetic person  
> Fermez la bouche: French for ‘shut your mouth’  
> Bon travail: French for ‘good job’  
> Merci: French for ‘thank you’  
> Cor Blimey: British slang diminutive of ‘God blind me’  
> Tu es une brute: French for ‘you are a brute’  
> Je suis désolée: French for ‘I’m sorry’  
> Mais: French for ‘but’  
> Est un morceau de le jeu: French for ‘it is a part of the game’  
> Non: French for ‘no’
> 
> That’s all for now! Bye!


	15. By the Heat of the Forge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I promised myself I wouldn’t write a long one, since it’s Monday, and I had school and all that...yeah. I didn’t keep that promise. Och, weel...I’m telling you, I have WAY TOO MUCH FUN with the freaking Scottish!
> 
> As usual, I’m going to thank zagara for the reviews, and I’m also going to warn you that I didn’t feel like extending this too much...hence, several awkward transitions. Sorry.

  
  


  The blazing heat of the forge cut the chill of the night air easily, making unwanted beads of sweat form on Kate’s brow. The metallic, plinking taps of the chisel rang out musically in her ears as she engraved her mark into the bottom of the newly-cooled cauldron, and the faint hissing sounds of water droplets falling onto the coals came and went, like the friendly chatter of brownies.

 

  Kate hummed softly as she worked, feeling a purposeful calm sweep through her: a sense of accomplishment and pride that was born from the shaping and crafting of iron and steel. She felt at home here, confident in her skill, comfortable amidst the bangs, hisses, dimness, and rust of the forge.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  It was this sensation of ease that allowed her to take her mind off of her nearly-completed work and stare, unabashedly amused, at the gangly figure of Geoff, seated awkwardly atop a barrel, trying valiantly to balance his parchments on his lap while covering his ears with one hand and his shoulder.

 

  “Y’don’t have t’stay if it’s too lood, y’know,” Kate pointed out, ducking her head to hide a grin.

  Geoff glanced up sharply, his pale eyes bright with manic fervour. “Oh, no; it’s fine,” he replied, offering a smile that was as quick as his hyperactive movements. “Besides, I find the clamor of hammers rather soothing...at least when compared with Wat’s snoring.”

  Kate snorted, laying down her chisel and walking briskly over to the door. “I definitely complouther with that,” she muttered, “Th’man’s like a beir, he is.” With a decisive reach, she opened the door, breathing in the cold, fresh air with a sigh of relief. “That awrite?” she asked the writer. “Not too cauld for ye?”

  “No, no.” Pulling his hands away from his ears and settling himself into a more comfortable-looking position, Geoff shifted his eyes to some point above Kate’s head, his gaze becoming abstracted, flashing with what she knew were numerous half-formed ideas.

 

  Kate shook her head fondly as she watched the man, who began to scribble furiously after that brief period of contemplation. He came in here often, he did, “ostensibly” to get away from Wat, who “snored with sufficient obstreperousness to wake the dead, never mind letting burgeoning ideas flow with any sort of coherence.” His words, not hers; she would never understand half of the vaudie things he said.

  
  Still, she never minded his presence; she even enjoyed it. He didn’t bather her, she didn’t bather him. They simply shared the warmth of the forge and the company, leaving the other to their own flights of imagination in peaceful silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, I don’t really ship Geoff and Kate...okay, that’s a lie. I do, but not really in a romantic sense; I’m very willing to play with their close friendship and understanding. Therefore, I feel that they could pull of a tableau like this, each wrapped up in his or her own creative outlet, sharing the space in contentment. 
> 
> Scottish translation time!
> 
> Och, weel: Oh, well  
> Brownies: Good-natured, invisible little brown creatures  
> Lood: Loud  
> Complouther: Agree; I saw this word, and immediately thought, “I HAVE to use this.”  
> Beir: Bear  
> Awrite: All right  
> Cauld: Cold  
> Vaudie: Proud, vain, show-offish, elated, spirited
> 
> That’s all! Bye!


	16. Fire and Stars

  
  


  The drifting snowflakes gleamed like falling stars by the light of the crackling fire, coming to rest gently of the heads and shoulders of the seven figures gathered about the pit of glowing warmth. Their bodies, pressed shamelessly close, formed a comfortable, almost intimate tableau, exuding an air of kinship and peace, made all the more magical by the music made in that small circle.

 

  The voices of the seven rang out clearly in the still night, lifting and mingling harmoniously in accompaniment to the warm, wooden notes of lutes, plucked deftly by the two blonde men.

  
  The sultry, dulcet tones of the dark-haired lady floated effortlessly above the soft, flute-like voice of the French maid and the husky contralto of the ferris. The sonorous bass of the rotund squire, the rough, off-key rumble of the redheaded one, the low, musical baritone of the writer, and the deep, clear half-tenor of the young knight added an alluring depth to the chorus, letting the voices of the seven intertwine and spin and weave together, soaring to the heavens as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear this group sing. Just putting that out there. 
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: HALF-TENOR IS NOT A REAL RANGE! Any singers out there will pound me for using the term. Anyone who wants to sing shouldn’t call themselves a half-tenor unless they want to get rebuked. I made the term up because I couldn’t find a name for a range between tenor and baritone that didn’t sound too modern for the period. Sue me. 
> 
> ¡Hasta mañana, todos!


	17. A Blooming Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I write Geoff a LOT (I’m biased; he’s my favorite), and I apologize if you don’t like that, but this chapter idea WOULD NOT LEAVE ME ALONE. Besides, I feel like Philippa is an interesting character who really should’ve been in the movie.

 

  It was a blooming miracle, Philippa thought as she stared out the door, tears of shock and joy welling up in her dark eyes. There was _no way_ he was here now, outside, looking so very lost and hopeful. It wasn’t bloody _possible_...and yet...there he stood. Her husband. Her love. Her _soul. Geoff_.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The last time he’d left, he’d promised- at great length and with much emotion- that he would come back to her, that nothing would be able to stand in his way. She had embraced him, held him, and made love to him as he expounded his passionate reassurances, and had seen him off with an exasperated, nervous smile.

 

  It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him, because she did; he always kept his promises, even though it might take him months to do so. It wasn’t that she didn’t miss him, either. It was just…there had always been a... _looseness_ to their marriage, a sort of lack of total commitment that was shared by both of them and that bothered neither of them. She didn’t begrudge him his mad scribblings, his travels, and his gambling, and he, in turn, accepted her numerous lovers and affairs with a jovial grace. However, there was always an element of doubt involved: a hint of tension... _apprehension_...that one would grow frustrated with the other’s exploits, and never return.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Eight months. Eight bloody months he’d been away, with nary a word to her in all of that time. She had truly begun to fear the worst, despite the trust she had placed in the group of squires and knights and blacksmiths he had gallivanted off with. Either he had gambled away his clothes and died of exposure, or he had gotten beaten for being unable to pay off his debts, or he had been run over by a cart in some narrow French street...it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Or perhaps he’d finally grown impatient with her...and had left for good….

 

  So of course- _of bloody course_ \- he turned up at her door now, standing like a curious mixture of a conquering hero and a pitiful stray dog, amidst howling winds and pouring, icy rain. _Just_ when she had been preparing a will and grave, he showed up, as tall and lanky and awkward as ever, with the same self-deprecating grin and long, odd coat.

 

  “Geoff,” she whispered, momentarily stunned into speechlessness. “You...you….”

  “I what?” he asked mischievously.

  That one statement was all it took for Philippa to burst out of the door, dragging her husband into a tight embrace. “You came back, you arse,” she sobbed, burying her face in the hollow of his slender neck. “You finally, _finally_ came back.”

  “Did you think, for one moment, that I wouldn’t?” he murmured into her hair. Oh, God, his voice: his beautiful low voice! How sweet it was to hear it again!

  “I didn’t know what to think,” she whispered. “You were gone so long, I began to fear the worst.”

  “None of that, my dear,” he replied caressing her tenderly. “I’m here, I’m whole, and I’m still mostly insane. Now….” He trailed off then, beaming softly as he stepped back from her. “I’d best regale you with all my tales and inquiries inside. I’d hate for you to freeze.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do write the oddest endings...yeah, I gotta curb that. Points to anyone who recognizes that quote. :)
> 
> I always envisioned Philippa and Geoff to have an easy, devil-may-care relationship, based more on passionate love than on obligation or commitment. Thus, one might go away for a while, but they’ll always return to each other. 
> 
> I’ve never written Philippa before, and I don’t have a great grasp on her character, so I hope I did her justice! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> I meant to ask this yesterday: is there anything anyone would particularly like to see, or would want to have happen? If so, let me know, please! I’m running out of ideas!


	18. Snowdrifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m attempting to bring the humor today! Honestly, though, I think this chapter was inspired more by a subconscious longing for snow than anything else. SERIOUSLY. We have NONE! NOT COOL!

  
  


   It _had_ to happen to him. It was snowing hard, the world was blindingly white, it was bloody _cold_ , and he was stuck in a blooming snowdrift.

 

  The others made no effort to contain their laughter at the sight, but Will couldn’t really blame them. After all, how often would they see a knight bring himself so low (a knight other than him, mind), not only to walk with his men, but to (rather foolishly, he realized now) run ahead, giving in to the childlike urge to be the first to spoil the heavy snow with his footprints?

 

  “Bloody brilliant,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably as said heavy snow chilled him and froze him to the waist.

  “I’ll say,” Roland remarked, taking hold of one of Will’s arms. “Haven’t you learned not to run off in a snowstorm by now?”

  “Yeah,” Wat cut in, grasping the other arm with a grin. “Remem’er wha’ ‘ap’ened tha’ one time, wi’ th’ Irish gal an’ th’-”

  “That was _one time_!” Will protested, feeling his face flush red. “Besides, I was young then; I didn’t know any better!”

  “How young is _young_?” Kate asked, obviously amused as she grabbed him beneath one shoulder.

  Will stared down at the ground, wincing. “Fourteen,” he mumbled.

  “Fourteen? And at that advanced and cocksure age, you still managed to...what? Find yourself lodged in a snowdrift, as you are now?” Geoff asked, moving to his other side.

  “‘E got to’ally buried,” Wat recalled, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “‘E was in there all th’ way up t’ ‘is neck.”

  “It took five men to dig him out,” Roland added with a smirk.

  “And now it’s takin’ four,” Kate concluded.

  “All right, all right! I’m an idiot,” Will snapped. “Now would you all _please_ stop making fun of my stupidity and just _get me the Hell out_?!”

  “All righ’, yer Highness,” Wat muttered sarcastically. “Will ye be nedin’ anythin’ else?”

  “Well, let’s have at it,” Geoff declared with undue enthusiasm. “Come on, lads...and lady! _Heave_!”

  
  
  When he was out, Will most certainly did _not_ let the fact that it took three men and a woman ten minutes to pull him out bother him. Absolutely not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will is fun to write, honestly...besides, I feel like I’ve been neglecting him. At any rate, that was fun! Interesting, too. Tell me what you thought!
> 
> If anyone is interested in hearing the stories of Will and the Irish girl or Geoff and the French cart, let me know. I think they’d be fun to write. :)
> 
> AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE: I might not be able to upload a chapter tomorrow, since I’ll be at a friend’s house. If I can’t, I’ll try to put up two on Saturday. Sorry.


	19. Wreaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this is a day late; I was staying at a friend’s house yesterday, so I couldn’t update. On the bright side, I DID get to see all three Hobbit movies in the space of two days...AWESOME. :D

 

  The sharp, fresh scents of holly and spruce tickled Kate’s nose pleasantly as she cut the fragrant branches and leaves, piling them up on the cold, frozen ground before her. Her deft hands twisted the boughs gently, weaving them together to form a sweet-smelling circlet of green, peppered with bright red holly berries that peeped out through the leaves like crimson lights.

  
  Kate smiled as she held her wreath, grinned as she hung it on the back of the wagon. This wreath was magic; she knew that, no matter what the others thought. It WAS magic, and it would protect the company all through the winter. No fashious spirits would trouble them now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...short, I know. The second one (today’s chapter) will be up shortly, and the promised stories (of the Irish girl and the French cart) will be coming in a matter of days! :)
> 
> I always thought it would be interesting if stoic, tough Kate secretly believed in spirits and sprites and all that, which is why I’ve been playing around with that this whole time. I also can’t resist writing her without using a bit o’ Scots, so….
> 
> Translation time!
> 
> Fashious: Annoying, tricky, troublesome
> 
> Bye for now!


	20. Luck o' the Irish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is TODAY’S chapter...which, coincidentally, is the Irish girl story. To refresh, this incident was mentioned in Chapter 18, and the root of Will’s hatred of snowdrifts. Enjoy!

  
  


  “Look a’ ‘er,” Wat muttered appreciatively, leaning against the low wall with a lewd whistle. “A righ’ bonny lass, tha’. I’d do anythin’ t’ get me ‘ands on ‘er, an’...apply a li’l o’ the ol’ _charm_ ….” Here he trailed off, winking suggestively. “If ye know wot I mean.”

 

  Will, too, was staring at the girl, a rather dreamy smile plastered onto his cold-reddened face. The girl, the simple Irish peasant girl, really was quite the ‘toothsome wench,’ as Sir Ector would say: tall and slender, curving generously in all the right places. Her skin was freckled and pale as milk, and her green eyes sparkled with mischief. Her arse-length hair, too, was stunning: impossibly curly and thick, shining bright and red as fire. She was carrying a bucket of river-water, not stumbling once, despite the obvious weight, and she talked and laughed merrily with the blonde lass beside her.

 

  “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, not caring who heard.

  “Oy! D’ya ‘ear ‘at? _Beau’iful,_ is she, now? _Really_?” Wat was practically bouncing on his toes from excitement...and likely, a disinclination to freeze to the ground on which he stood. Shaking his bright red head, he reached towards Will, chapped hands outstretched, and shoved him in the direction of the girls with one decisive movement. “Go on, then! Talk t’ ‘er!”

 

  Wat’s strong push brought the younger squire off balance, and he staggered, unable to regain his footing on the deep, wet snow. With a strangled cry, he pitched over the low wall, tumbling arse-over-elbow to the riverbed.

 

  Wat, seeing what he had accidentally done, leaped to his feet in shock, and the two girls backed away from the rolling form, their eyes wide. Will tried vainly to stop himself, but his speed was too great, and he shot straight into a snowdrift, sending heavy white clumps in every direction.

 

  Spluttering and flailing wildly, Will clawed his desperate way through a sea of white, gasping when his head broke the surface. The rest of his scrawny body, however, was buried up to the neck in the drift, which was hardening about him as more snow fell and packed it down. With a labored grunt, he tried to wriggle loose, only to huff out a breath of annoyance at his failure. _He. Was. Stuck._

 

  “Um...help?” he called out, embarrassment making his voice thin and reedy. “Anyone? Help, please?”

  “How’s she cuttin’, there, sasanach? Are ye actin’ the maggot ‘specially fer us, or are ye jus’ a reg’lar amadan?”

 

  By _God_ , even the girl’s damn voice was lovely! It was so silvery and deep! But... _shite_ , the lass swore like a fishwife! And she had the nerve to insult _him_ , of all people! Could she not _see_ the trouble he was in?

 

  “Uh...no, I’m not!” he called back, trying (and failing) to sound casual. “I’m just...well...I, uh, I like...sitting...in snowbanks. It’s, uh...it’s very peaceful.”

  “Ye’ll catch cold, laddie,” the blonde one said, a bit patronizingly. “It’d be smart fer ye t’ quit bein’ a fekin’ eejit an’ gerrouddathere.”

  “Ay! William!” _GOD_ , he’d never been so glad to hear Sir Ector’s voice. The burly knight ran carefully down to the riverbank, followed by Wat, Roland, and two other men: a tanned, lean Prussian knight, and Count Adhemar’s foppish herald. “What are you doing in there, boy?” Ector asked, disapproval plain in every word. “Do you want to freeze to death?”

  Chastened, Will looked down. “No, sir,” he whispered. “I was….”

  “I’ was my fault, Sir,” Wat burst out, biting his lip. “We was gawkin’ a’ them lassies an’...I pushed ‘im. ‘M sorry.”

  Sir Ector leveled a hard, measured stare at porr Wat. “I’ll tan your hide for this later,” he said. “Right now, we need to get Will out.”

  
  The Irish girls watched, fascinated, as the men began to dig and pull, gradually hauling Will from the hole. When he was wrapped in a blanket on Sir Ector’s cart, hot bricks at his feet, he glared resentfully at the two, feeling like a...like a _fekin’ eejit_ for doing what he’d done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT. WAS. FUN. I fleshed that out a lot more than I might have, but I really enjoyed it. Oh, yeah; I made up the word arse-length, sort of. Sorry. 
> 
> Translation time! NOTE: Irish slang is marked with an I, and British slang with a B.
> 
> Arse-over-elbow (B): Head-over-heels  
> How’s she cuttin’ (I): How are things?  
> Sasanach (I): A derogatory term for an English person  
> Acting the maggot (I): Behaving in a humorously irrational manner  
> Amadan (I): Fool  
> Fekin’ eejit (I): F**king idiot  
> Gerrouddathere: As close as I could come to ‘Get out of there’
> 
> Again, this was fun. By the way, the Prussian knight is another spontaneous OC, but the ‘foppish herald’ is the butt-kicking Germaine (I think?). I had to introduce him somehow.


	21. The French Cannot Be Trusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Winter Solstice, everyone! Today is officially the longest, darkest day of the year. It is also the day of the promised story of the French cart. Speaking of that, I really don’t mean to offend any French people by the title, for two reasons: a) the French, while they are admittedly very frightening drivers, are very nice people, and b) I’m quoting the Da Vinci Code movie. 
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, um...poor Geoff. That’s all I’m going to say.

  
  


  Philippa was the one that had suggested they go to the market, but that didn’t mean that Geoff couldn’t be excited. On the contrary: he was striding ahead of her with a bright smile on his thin, sharp face, his long legs eating up the ground. She had to jog to keep up, wondering where on Earth her husband found all of his energy.

 

  “ _Dépėche-toi_!” Geoff called cheerfully, turning his head to grin at her. “ _J'ai pas toute la journée, et c’etai ton idée, enfin_.”

  “ _Casse-toi_!” Philippa shot back, hurrying forward to slap his lean arm. “In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t got your legs!”

  “Then perhaps I ought to carry you, _ma fleur_ ,” he replied glibly, with an impish twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “ _Je ne suis pas sûre d’aimer ça idée, monsieur_ ,” she murmured coyly, sneaking past him with a not-so-subtle roll of her hips. “I’m not the... _helpless_ sort.”

  “No.” Geoff’s low voice became husky, a seductive purr. _“Tu es tout sauf, mon ange_.” And he spun into her with leonine grace, tangling his long musician’s fingers into her dark hair and pulling her into a passionate _baiser_.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  It was a long walk to the market, and a tedious one at that, despite the chaotic bustle of Parisian life that filled the streets. Perhaps it was this liveliness that led Geoff to keep bolting off, running ahead for a while before doubling sheepishly back to Philippa and resuming their conversation as though nothing had happened. Philippa laughed riotously at his antics, caring not a _whit_ for either propriety or the strange looks that they were receiving. This was just their _way_ : he was a boisterous, reckless soul, and she, possessing a similar spirit, didn’t mind at all.

 

  He was away from her now, in fact, staring at the dark spires of a distant cathedral with all the fascination of a young child.

 

  “ _Ralentis_!” she shouted, fond exasperation coloring her tone. “ _Pour l’amour du ciel_ , you’ll get run over, standing there like that!”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The cart came out of nowhere. In one moment, Geoff was standing alone in the narrow intersection; in the next, a wagon, laden with melons and lettuces, driven at a gallop by four powerful horses, came swinging out of a side tunnel. The two beasts at the front barreled headlong into the lanky figure in the road, and suddenly he was down, gone, felled like some waifish tree, prone and crushed beneath the towering animals.

 

  Philippa was numb; her vision blurred, and her ears roared deafeningly. Her eyes grew hot, her throat tight, and only one thought was able to make itself clear- painfully, devastating clear- in the turmoil of her mind. _He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead_.

 

  “ _Arrêt! Halte, bêtes stupides_!” The horses skidded to a stop, and the peddler leaped from the wagon seat, staring at Geoff’s crumpled form in shock.

  “ _NON_!” Philippa surged forward with a stuttering sort of speed, flinging herself to the ground, grabbing for her husband’s hand. “ _À l’aide_!” she shouted, enraged tears warbling her voice. “ _À l’aide, s’il vous plait! N’importe qui_!”

  “ _Madame_ ….” The wagoneer stepped toward her hesitantly, twisting his patched cap in his corded hands. “ _Je suis très, très désolée, mais_ -”

  “ _Pouvez-vous m’aider, s’il vous plait?_ ” she asked, feeling desperately for the flutter of a pulse at Geoff’s neck. _Please, let it be there; let him live yet, please God, please…._

 

  There! It was weak, uneven, but it was a pulse: the beating of her love’s heart was not extinguished; he was not yet departed from her! _Dieu merci; merci, merci, merci…._

 

  “ _Je besoin d’un médecin_ ,” she murmured, hoping that the wagoneer would hear. To her utter relief, he did, and ran off down a street, calling for a “ _docteur, docteur, il y a un homme blessé dans la rue_!”

  
  Philippa tightened her grip on her husband’s hand, feeling his pulse with a feverish need, praying and _praying_ that he would survive, and somehow _knowing_ that he would. His role in the play of the world was not through. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was way more angsty and intense than I’d planned, but it was really fun. I really love the passion and jovial ease between Philippa and Geoff, and I had a lot of fun writing that bit of flirtation at the beginning. They call French the language of love for a reason, folks. 
> 
> On that note, Philippa de Roet actually is French, and Geoff speaks it...and considering that this takes place in France, I had to use a lot of French...yeah, I MAYBE went a little overboard. I hope all the translations are accurate, so, with that in mind….
> 
> Translation time!
> 
> Dépėche-toi: French for ‘hurry up’  
> J'ai pas toute la journée: French for ‘I haven’t got all day’  
> Et: French for ‘and’  
> C’etai ton idée: French for ‘it was your idea’  
> Enfin: French for ‘anyway’  
> Casse-toi: French for ‘piss off’ or f**k off’  
> Ma fleur: French for ‘my flower’  
> Je ne suis pas sûre d’aimer ça idée: French for ‘I’m not sure I like that idea’  
> Monsieur: French for ‘mister’ or ‘sir’  
> Tu es tout sauf: French for ‘you’re anything but’  
> Mon ange: French for ‘my angel’  
> Baiser: French for ‘kiss’  
> Ralentis: French for ‘slow down’  
> Pour l’amour du ciel: French for ‘for Heaven’s sake:’ literally, ‘for the love of the sky’  
> Arrêt: French for ‘stop’  
> Halte: French for ‘halt’  
> Bêtes stupides: French for ‘stupid beasts’  
> Non: French for ‘no’  
> À l’aide: French for ‘help!’  
> S’il vous plait: French for ‘please:’ literally, ‘if you please’  
> N’importe qui: French for ‘anybody’  
> Madame: French for ‘Mrs.’  
> Je suis très, très désolée: French for ‘I am very, very sorry’  
> Mais: French for ‘but’  
> Pouvez-vous m’aider: French for ‘can you help me?’  
> Dieu merci: French for ‘thank God’  
> Merci: French for ‘thank you’  
> Je besoin d’un médecin: French for ‘I need a physician’  
> Docteur: French for ‘doctor’  
> Il y a un homme blessé dans la rue: French for ‘there is an injured man in the street’
> 
> Dang. That was long. Oh yeah. Um...so, market days were traditions that were popular all throughout the Middle Ages, and still continue all over the world today. Usually they would be held on Sundays, and everyone would go out to buy food and socialize. Market fairs went on for weeks. Peddlers would make a living by traveling from one market to the next.
> 
> On the subject of travel, medieval roads were notoriously narrow, and often lightless, since the second stories of the houses jutted over them. Some well-traveled roads were paved, as were most city roads, but many weren’t. Horses and carts were not common methods of travel, used only to transport food and such.
> 
> Okay, so...yeah, I’m out. See you tomorrow, and remember to review!


	22. An Outsider's Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re approaching Christmas Eve, and the start of the Twelve Nights! That being said, I’m running out of ideas. Hence, this chapter, which was the strange product of no inspiration, boredom in AP Government class, and an obsession with a book series that has nothing WHATSOEVER to do with AKT. Oops….
> 
> For those of you who know the Oracle Trilogy, you might recognize the ‘outsider;’ it’s Kreon, the Shadow. For those of you who DON’T know the series, you really should read it, but it’s not necessary, as I didn’t use any plot points. I simply borrowed the character.
> 
> Again, I’m sorry about the weirdness of this one; I was at a complete loss. :/

 

  The ragged, cloaked figure stalked unseen in the shadows, his colorless, pink-tinged eyes trained on the stand of tents beyond the rise. He had been observing the motley group all night: four men, three women, three tents, and two horses. All night long, he had listened to their talk, their laughter, their friendly banter; he had hummed along to their old songs, made fresh by new voices and harmonies. He had watched them move about: cooking, sewing, oiling weapons, writing, sparring. He had noted their growing quiescence, and had seen them retire in nightly fatigue to those green tents as the cloud-scratched moon rose ever higher. The fat man and the curly-haired youth had trudged to one tent, the women to the largest, and the tall writer and the obnoxious redhead to the last.

 

  The feeling of fellowship that had suffused the biting night air was lost to him now, sequestered within the green tents of that strange, boisterous company. With a weary sigh, he heaved himself unsteadily to his feet, smiling sardonically at the sight of his unnaturally tall and skeletal shadow. If any member of that group could see him, they would think him a beast, a terrible phantom of some sort. The wiry, dark-haired woman would curse and point some iron object at him, and the two other ladies would shriek. The redhead would confront him angrily, and the fat man would push the curly-haired one behind him, like a father might do to his son. The writer, surely, would be fascinated.

  
  His bitter smile grew, twisting into a rather unpleasant leer. What business did he have with such a close-knit group; why did he watch them and yearn to share in their intimacy? It was all for naught, after all. For a phantom had no right to live among men, to sit by their fires and sing their songs and sleep in their tents. A phantom could only watch from afar, a ghost  at the feast of men’s holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...yeah, I have no excuses. All the same, I enjoyed writing this. I hope I gave everyone a little insight into the characters of the ‘motley group,’ as well as a foray into the mind of what I think is quite a fascinating character. Despite the fact that this chapter wasn’t the best, I hope you all review! See you tomorrow!


	23. Christmas Pipes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I’m taking serious historical liberties today. I’ve had the song ‘Christmas Pipes,’ by the Celtic Women, stuck in my head all day, and I simply HAD to use it. I realize that the song was written several centuries after AKT took place...but allow me some creative license to play with history. :)

  
  


  It came as no surprise to Will that both Geoff and Roland had suggested that caroling with a group of minstrels and waits would be a good idea. That group had surprised them earlier that afternoon with their songs, and had asked if Will and his own band might accompany them to the center of London.

 

  Jocelyn had tried to impress upon them that they were a _knight’s entourage_ , not a company of wandering bards, but Geoff and Roland, outgoing and musical as they were, had assured said bards that they- indeed, their entire group- would be _delighted_ to come along.

 

  Despite his love’s evident dislike of the situation, Will had nothing to stop the others. Actually, he was just as eager as they were; he remembered fondly the days when he had gone wassailing and mumming, just like this, side by side with his father, friends, and neighbors (and a goodly number of scops), making the nights about Cheapside light up with music. Those had been happy times...and now, that he was being offered a chance to have those times back for a night, why should he not take it?

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The waits and minstrels had brought their own instruments: gitterns, lutes, cymbals, rebecs, flutes, pipes, and tabors. One of the latter was handed to Wat, who stared blankly at it before one of the waits decided to teach him how to play. To Will they gave a larger drum, which Kate called a _bodhrán_ , and a small, double-padded hammer she called a _tipper_. The ferris herself received, with much pleasure, a set of pipes, and she set about playing them with considerable skill. Roland was given one of the sweet-toned wooden flutes, and Geoff was handed a battered fiddle. Christiana, to everyone’s surprise, proved to be quite deft with a harp, and Jocelyn, after much badgering, finally consented to carrying some cymbals; Will was pleased to note that she didn’t look as uneager as before.

 

  Armed and ready, the large band began carousing through the firelit London streets; Will and his friends quickly caught on to the melody the minstrels had started. The three flutes present sang out into the night, their clear notes lingering on the air as the voices of thirty men and women floated out like an angel’s chorus.

  
  “Christmas pipes, Christmas pipes! Calling us, calling on Christmas night….” All around them, people peered out from their darkened doorways to watch, awed at the spectacle, waving in merry tears as the group moved on and on. “Call us from far, call us from near, O play me your Christmas pipes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a band/music geek, you have no idea how much fun I had writing this. On another note, Christmas Pipes is an absolutely beautiful song; I strongly recommend listening to it! :)
> 
> Minstrels were traveling musicians, similar to bards in that they sang poetry or epics, and often performed for the nobility. A ‘scop’ is an Old English word for a bard or a poet. Waits, on the other hand, were official town musicians and night watchmen that would go around and play on civic holidays. They were outlawed in 1835, upon which time civilians took to replacing them at Christmas, earning the name ‘Christmas Waits.’
> 
> Wassailing is the practice of singing to bring good luck and health in the new year. For more information about wassailing, see chapter 13. Mumming is another old custom, involving going to people’s houses in disguise and putting on a play, making music, dancing, making mischief, etc. Modern caroling, which began in the 19th century, has its roots in both of these traditions.
> 
> A tabor is a small hand drum, played by a minstrel and often used to accompany a fife. A bodhrán is a Celtic frame drum, which is played with a tipper and may not have been invented at the time…. A gittern is like a guitar, as is a lute, and a rebec is sort of a cross between a lute and a violin. 
> 
> Again, I’m taking historical liberties. Sue me. That’s all for now! See you tomorrow!


	24. Christes Maesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you that celebrate Christmas, a very merry Christmas Eve to you! To those of you that don’t, I wish you a happy final day of Hanukkah, a happy Kwanzaa two days early, and a happy holiday season to everyone that doesn’t celebrate any of those. :)
> 
> Today marks the official start of the Twelve Days of Christmas; we’re in the home stretch, people! Sad, but true!
> 
> I know this is early, but I won’t be here to type later, so...yeah. In any case, I’m not sure how well this will turn out. The title, Christes Maesse, translates roughly to ‘Christ’s Mass,’ a traditional Christmas Eve service. I’ve never attended a Mass before, and I’m not religious, so I don’t know how accurate any of this is. That being said, I hope you enjoy!

  “ _Kyrie eleison…. Christie eleison…._ ”

 

  The ethereal voices of the choir lifted into the lofty ceilings of the church on angel’s wings. The heavy censer swung hypnotically in the priest’s plump, ringed hands, releasing the exotic, heady scents of frankincense and myrrh. The blood-red light of the eve’s sunset streamed through the stained glass windows, washing the faces of the faithful with myriad heavenly colors.

  
  Jocelyn listened to the prayers, chants, and songs of the Vigil with a contentment that was unique to this holy night and place. The hushed canon, its words altered to honor Christ’s Mass, brought a tear- not of sorrow, but of joy- to her eye, and she could see, upon glancing about, that her six companions, and the rest of the congregation, shared in her peace, the Lord’s peace, on this sacred Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet...I warned you this would be difficult. 
> 
> ‘Kyrie eleison; Christie eleison’ means ‘Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy’ in Latin. 
> 
> Medieval masses would usually start with the Kyrie, sung my a choir of monks, canons, or nuns, while the priest incensed the altar. You may recognize this priest as the one from AKT who kicked Will out of the church. Following that would be many chants and prayers, interspersed with songs. 
> 
> The canon, the longest, most important prayer of the service, was done in the middle. It was started with a preface, or introduction, whose words changed to fit the occasion (Christmas, Easter, etc.) and season (Advent or Lent). The canon was also modified on such occasions to mention the holy feast. 
> 
> The Vigil, or Vigil Mass, is held on Christmas Eve, while the Midnight, Dawn, and Evening masses are held on Christmas Day. 
> 
> I always imagined that Jocelyn, for all that she defies societal norms, would be a rather religious person, partly due to her propensity for frequenting churches. 
> 
> Criticism and comments are appreciated, as always! I hope you all have a happy holiday season, and I’ll see you tomorrow!


	25. The Feast of the Nativity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas Day to all that celebrate it! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday, and I hope everyone is hungry, because we’re delving into the culinary realm once more.

 

  Roland had moved all of the group’s cooking supplies into one of the tents in the early hours of the morning, setting up a kitchen that was nearly as good as his old mother’s...well, perhaps not, but for this day, it would do.

 

  All day long, various delicious smells had emerged from the bustling tent as the group prepared their Nativity feast. Kate had made her lambswool, filling the air with the aromatic tangs of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and brown ale. Jocelyn and Christiana had prepared the goose that they had bought from the market, plucking it, buttering it, sprinkling it with saffron, and roasting it over the large, crackling fire. Will had shot a deer, leaving him and Geoff in charge of the venison: charred over the coals, with rosemary and thyme for flavor. The ‘umbles had been given to Wat, who could make an ‘umble pie that could rival even Roland’s infamous mother’s. Roland himself was tasked with the frumenty; its sweet, rich scent rose heavenward, mingling tantalizingly with the gamey smoke of the meat and the heady perfume of the ale and spices.

  
  Come evening, the four men emptied and upended the cart helping the ladies to lay a proper table for the first time in months. Jocelyn bade them all join hands as she led them in prayer, asking God to bless their Nativity feast, and asking for happiness such as this in the year to come as they all dug into the fruits of their labors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know about you, but writing that made me HUNGRY….
> 
> The Feast of the Nativity takes place on December 25th, which was the day the Church picked to celebrate the birth of Jesus, largely in order to reconcile with pagan festivals. This feast was enjoyed by rich and poor alike, although the food differed widely. Speaking of that….
> 
> For more info on lambswool, see Chapter 13. 
> 
> Roast goose is a Christmas staple in the British Isles. However, in medieval times, this was a delicacy largely enjoyed by the rich, although the poor could buy one from the church for seven pence (a day’s wages). The goose would be buttered, sprinkled with saffron, and roasted.
> 
> Venison was also enjoyed by the rich, but the poor weren’t entirely deprived of it. They were given the ‘umbles: the heart, the liver, the tongue, the ears, the brain, and so on. These parts were baked into a pie- ‘umble pie, as it became known as. Mincemeat pie was another popular dish; for more information about that, see Chapter 2.
> 
> Frumenty is pretty much the original Christmas pudding, made with thick porridge, currants and other dried fruit, egg yolk, and spices. 
> 
> That’s all for now! See you tomorrow!


	26. A Game of Dice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! So...we’re three days into the Twelve Days, which means that there are only ten chapters left! We’re going to be experiencing a barrage of medieval traditions for the next few days, so sit back, read, and enjoy the ride!
> 
> Note: The dice game played in this chapter is inordinately, unnecessarily complicated, so I’ve explained the rules to the best of my ability at the end.

 

_Auderic of Aquitaine was set upon six and seven, with three hundred gold florins at stake, and Geoffrey Chaucer was about fit to expire in a fever of anticipation._

  
  


X X X

  
  


  If Geoff had one good thing to say about the French, it was that they knew their dice. A whole group of them- knights, squires, and a peasant and baron or two- had been sitting in the back of the smoky, dim tavern he had entered, out on a holiday bender and bladdered off their arses. They had called out loudly some time after sundown, inviting anyone who wished to throw a round of _dés_ to join them.

 

  Two Spaniards had accepted the offer immediately, and were helping to set up the game with an open amiability that only wine and ale could foster. Upon observing the lack of animosity, Geoff, who was never one to turn down a game, sauntered boldly over to the group, offering a gracious smile to the boisterous, loquacious, and half-comatose (in the case of the portly baron in the corner; the poor fellow was listing to one side, completely arseholed….) men.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The game had begun with meager stakes; one Calisto of Navarre had won the caster’s toss, and had set down thirty florins. His chosen main: nine. He had then thrown an eight, leading a quat-plagued squire who called himself Peitavin to shout, “ _Chance_!” With a brash grin, the Spanish knight threw again, only to leap up and swear as a four and a five glared up at him. Thirty florins had been lost to him, dispersed among the rest.

 

  The dice were passed on and on, and as the number of players dwindled (the French were gradually succumbing to alcohol-induced stupors), the wages grew higher, the games more intense. Geoff wasn’t quite sure when the group at large abandoned the post of setter to him, but he was most certainly not complaining; this way, he could only _gain_ money. Already, he had won eighty florins, which had been safely stowed in his purse...indeed, the luck was with the English tonight.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Come midnight, only Geoff, Calisto of Navarre, an Eloi of Aragon, the blasted Peitavin, and an Auderic of Aquitaine remained. All were rather tipsy by this point, some more than others...which was how Auderic found himself betting those outrageous, coveted three hundred florins...and how Geoff found himself dizzyingly exhilarated as he watched the toss.

 

  Main, six. Auderic’s strong, elegant hand wrapped confidently around the stained wood of the cup and shook it, tipping it over carelessly after what seemed an eternity. Three and four for seven...chance. The hand gripped the cup again, and Geoff fixed his eyes on the vibrating wood, with only one thought, one mantra, running through his mind: _Seven. Seven. Seven_.

 

  Roll once, twice...thrice. Flip the cup, lift it up. _Two...five_.

  
  Auderic roared, slamming his fist onto the table with force enough to crack it, and the Spaniards cheered, clapping Geoff heartily on the back. Dazedly, he accepted their congratulations as he pocketed two hundred and fifty florins. He was a made man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The research for this chapter took TOO. DAMN-er, DANG. LONG.
> 
> Dice games were often played during the Twelve Days, by men from all walks of life. One of these games was hazard, a game that was mentioned in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, and which was probably referred to in the movie. The rules are as follows. 
> 
> The game can have any number of players, but only one person can have the dice at one time; this person is known as the caster. In each round, the caster picks a number from 5 to 9, called the main. He then rolls two dice, and can either nick (win), out (lose), or chance. This is a breakdown of possibilities. 
> 
>  
> 
> Main  
> Nicks  
> Outs  
> Chance  
> 5  
> 5  
> 2, 3, 11, 12  
> 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10  
> 6  
> 6, 12  
> 2, 3, 11  
> 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12  
> 7  
> 7, 11  
> 2, 3, 12  
> 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11  
> 8  
> 8, 12  
> 2, 3, 11  
> 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 12  
> 9  
> 9  
> 2, 3, 11, 12  
> 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10
> 
> If a person throws a chance, he rolls again. If he throws the chance on his second go, he wins, and if he throws the main, he loses. If he rolls neither, he keeps going until he throws one or the other. The caster keeps the dice until he loses three times; then, the dice are passed to his left.
> 
> Betting in the game is complicated, but is done between the caster and the bank, or the setter. Basically, bets are proportional, and for simplicity’s sake, I’ll just explain Auderic’s bet: at three hundred florins, with a main of six and a chance of seven, he could win 250 florins, since the proportional value is ⅚. 
> 
> Obviously, I had to involve Geoff in a gambling chapter, and I couldn’t resist using this game after learning that it had been mentioned in his book. Still, I took some possible liberties involving the ‘caster’s toss’ and the eventual win. A caster’s toss might not actually exist, but it’s basically tossing to see who goes first: highest number wins. Regarding Geoff’s victory, I’m not sure if the setter would get the money if the caster lost, but I would assume so….
> 
> The phrase ‘set upon six and seven’ was also coined by Chaucer; it related to betting one’s entire fortune on a single toss. 
> 
> Translation time! British slang will be marked with a B, and French will be marked with an F.
> 
> Bender (B): A heavy drinking session  
> Bladdered (B): Drunk  
> Dés (F): Dice  
> Arseholed (B): Extremely drunk  
> Quat-faced (Half Shakespearean): Pimple-faced  
> Chance (F): Chance
> 
> So...yeah, this was pretty fun...it’s late, too...sorry. See you tomorrow!


	27. Soule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9 days to go! I’m literally going to do a countdown; it just seems fun. So...we’re still playing games in France today, and our four guys are getting physical. Enjoy!

  
  


  Forty-six married men formed one team, claiming a blacksmith’s cottage as their post. Thirty-nine unmarried men, including Will, Roland, Wat, and Geoff, made up the other team, and they claimed the doorway of the small church that was nestled in the village of Brancion. The _pelote_ , a leather-wrapped pig’s bladder, was tossed into the air by Kate, who had volunteered to perform the rather dangerous duty with near-disturbing eagerness. Eighty-six pairs of eyes followed the _pelote_ as it flew higher and higher into the pale winter sky, and Kate stealthily moved out of harm’s way as it came down...down...down….

  
  


X X X

  
  


   A brawny, freckled arm reached up, grabbing the _pelote_ and crushing it between calloused fingers. Wat immediately took off running, plowing through the mass of Frenchmen like a raging bull, scattering men left and right as he sprinted out of the frozen meadow. He’d find the blacksmith’s cottage at some point...just had to keep running...not let anyone else flich it….

 

  A punch to his stomach made him stop in his tracks. Doubling over, Wat was barely conscious of the lean hands of the young wainwright prising the _pelote_ from his grasp, but the other man’s victory was short-lived; Roland and an equally porky bloke in a farmer’s garb double-teamed the prat, leaping at him and tackling him to the ground.

  
  Wat, fully recovered by this point, thanks very much, wasted no time in pinching the _pelote_ and taking off again, laughing uproariously as the vicious game continued around him. This was his kind of game. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late; I was watching a movie with my family. :)
> 
> The game that the group is playing is soule, which is basically the French version of keep-away on a massive scale. This game was popular during the Twelve Days, and during the rest of the year, as well...and I can see why; it sounds EXTREMELY fun. 
> 
> Essentially, two teams would be competing, although there could be as many as sixteen; each team could have anywhere from 20 to 200 players. Usually, two church parishes would compete, but you could have bachelors versus married men, as shown here, or anything else. Both teams would have a ‘post,’ or a place that the other team had to bring the ball, or pelote, to; the ball could be made of wood, leather, a pig’s bladder, or fabric. On person would throw the ball up in the air, and people could run, kick, throw, punch, or hit the ball with a curved stick. There really weren’t any rules, and all contact was allowed, making players very prone to injury. 
> 
> That’s all from me! See you tomorrow!


	28. Married For A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 days to go! We’re back in England again, and are once more delving into some of the strange traditions of the Twelve Days. This one, as you can probably tell from the title, involves one-day marriages...need I say more?
> 
> Oh, yeah...this chapter MIGHT need an M rating...Wat is a dirty, dirty bastard….

  
  


  “And so, by the power vested in me….” The young lad, who couldn’t have been more than eight, spoke in an odd, nasal voice, and paused to adjust the heavy bishop’s robes on his scrawny frame with all the officiousness of a lord. He made a potty face as he met the blue and green eyes before him, eliciting a laugh from the gathered crowd. “I now pronounce thee husband and wife.”

 

  With great, false dignity and barely concealed laughter, the couple leaned forward to place an offering of ale on the altar. The boy looked it over, nodded in satisfaction, and continued in his posh accent. “Your offering has been deemed worthy. You may now kiss the bride.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  She was a tavern wench: a cracking lass who called herself Louisa, smiled through plump, dark lips, and walked with a devilish sway, flaunting her rounded, luschious arse for all to see and admire. Wat thought that she was the most tidy bird he’d ever seen, and would’ve given anything to press his mouth to her ample knockers and bonk her...so when he learned that the boy bishop would be marrying folk for a day, he’d wasted no time in begging her to come with him.

 

  Unsurprisingly, she had agreed- what girl wouldn’t, after all? She had even offered to bring a barrel of ale as their offering, and had fruitily dragged Wat back to the tavern, leading him up to a room and slamming the door shut behind them.

  
  Wat trapped her against the stained wood, his hands roaming hungrily over her lush curves, his eyes taking a butchers of her supple, now-nude form with undisguised lust. Louisa moaned enticingly, threading her fingers through his red hair as she maneuvered him over to the flea-ridden bed. Wat growled, and Louisa whispered his name desperately as she stripped him, until he was lying atop her, utterly starkers, ready to abandon himself to a night of pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to warn you. This is my first time writing anything CLOSE to smut, so...tell me how I did?
> 
> The tradition of the boy bishop is one that I found extremely interesting. On December 28th (the Feast of Holy Innocents, celebrating the children killed by King Herod), a young boy would be elected to be ‘bishop’ for the day. He would dress in vestments, preach a mass and sermon, and attend a procession in which he’d receive gifts of money and food. He would, in turn, be required to perform some duties; namely, marrying couples for a day. These couples would have to give an offering, and those that gave shoddy ones were hit with a bag of ash that the ‘bishop’ had in his cape. 
> 
> So...obviously, the wedding night would be STEAMY...hence, Wat’s rather lustful personality. I also completely BS'd the marriage ceremony; however, the faces and the fake voice were common.
> 
> Translation time (for the British slang)!
> 
> Potty: Crazy  
> Posh: High class  
> Cracking: Stunning, or ‘the best’  
> Tidy: Attractive or sexy  
> Bird: A girl  
> Knockers: Breasts  
> Bonk: Um...have sex with  
> Fruitily: Friskily  
> Butchers: Look  
> Starkers: Stark naked
> 
> So...yeah, a bit more explicit than usual...it was fun, though…. Remember to review, and I’ll see you all tomorrow!


	29. Mumming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One week to go! So...you might notice that I’ve changed the story’s rating to T...mostly due to yesterday’s chapter. However, I can safely say that we’re out of explicit territory...for now, at least. Instead, we’re moving into masked territory...and it’s not under the Paris Opera House...yeah, my jokes are terrible. 
> 
> Oh; I don’t want to spoil the plot of this chapter, but the words that he mummers recite ARE NOT MINE!!! They come from Elizabeth Wein’s awesome book, The Winter Prince, and while today is not Midwinter’s Day, I found her ‘pageant’ interesting enough that I, er, borrowed it...as well as some dialogue contained within the pageant.

  
  


  Thirteen vaguely human figures, garbed in rough, shapeless sacks and thick fur cloaks, masked and gloved to hide their true selves, traversed London’s dark, snow-lined streets, whooping and gamboling about like a band of court fools. They were a merry sight, talking, laughing, and singing as they advanced upon the first illuminated home.

 

  A tall, masculine figure, his costume stuffed with straw to hide his lean, well-defined musculature, banged on the water-warped door, snickering into his hand as he withdrew into the crowd. A moment passed, and a man with the soft appearance of a scribe opened the door, stepping back in amused shock as the group burst into his home.

 

  “Well, I’ll be damned…” he murmured, moving away to take a small, slender woman in his arms.

 

  The figure who had knocked stepped forward again, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of welcoming. “Way! Make way!” he chanted in a deep, clear voice. “Yield the floor, clear the way! We’ll mend all evil’s ill with mirth, on this Midwinter’s Day.”

 

  The quiet laughter of the couple faded as the mummer paced jauntily about the floor, and they sat down on a chair in the corner to watch the performance eagerly.

 

  “Under your green-girt beams we come, neither to beg nor borrow,” the man continued. “Happy we play upon your hearth to speed away all sorrow. We are the season’s rhymers! Cry welcome to us here! Fortune we bring to field and fold at the closing of the year.”

 

  The twelve others quickly formed a half-circle before their captivated audience, and a small, slight figure, wearing a hood trimmed with holly berries, stepped boldly into the center.

 

  “In come I, the Old Year, keeper of this fruitful land.” This being also spoke in a deep voice, one that sounded rather humorous and strange in its obvious caricature. It waved a hand as it paused, producing a stalk of wheat seemingly out of nowhere, to the delight of the observers. “Your stout hoards of grain, ale, and meat are blessed beneath my hand.” The Old Year paused again, handing the stalk to the man with an exaggerated flourish. “Here is your hope, here is your bread, your shield against the dark’s sharp blast: who boldly dares before me stand to lay me low at last?”

 

  At that, the Old Year turned sharply, facing the rest of the players and spreading its arms in defiance. Another figure, broad and tall, wearing a hood trimmed with foil icicles, stalked out to meet it, performing a brief dance step for the couple’s amusement.

 

  “In come I, the New Year; the snow falls at my word,” it said, its voice husky and thickly accented. “The black moths wheel around ere Spring, ice-edged as my cold sword. I am the one stronger than all who march in this parade: which of these gay retainers, lord, dare turn aside my blade?”

 

  Now, yet another shape danced out of the circle. A tall, gangly creature, this one was crowned with paper flowers and walked with an affected, mincing sashay, eliciting uproarious laughter from all assembled.

 

  “In come I, the Winter Prince, son of the Year that’s gone,” it exclaimed, in a high, falsetto voice. “Green ivy, hawthorn, and holly I bear for pledges of the returning Sun. I will fight for the Old Year: though the grim Midwinter’s rod strikes the soil, soon the young Sun will stir the Spring’s triumphant sod.”

 

  The New Year sauntered up to face the Winter Prince, placing one hand on its hip. “Pull out your sword, young Harvest Lord, defender of the Sun! As the Year dies, so you shall fall- you and the Old Year both shall I have before I quit this hall.”

 

  One of the costumed figures still in the circle, a rotund shape that crawled on its knees, carried two wooden swords, wrapped in holly leaves and ribbon, to the New Year and the Winter Prince, presenting the weapons with a courtly bow. The two duelists bowed formally to each other, then lunged almost immediately. The gathered crowd offered both cheers and jibes as the New Year veritably chased the Winter Prince about the room, striking out at all available surfaces as the Prince leaped and flipped clumsily away.

 

  “Not fair, mate!” the New Year huffed. “Aren’ I s’posed t’ kill ye?”

  “Oh, very well.” The Prince’s feigned voice did not slip as it spoke, crossing its lanky arms petulantly. The New Year thrusted forward, jabbing a hole in the Winter Prince’s sackcloth costume; it abruptly fell to the floor, clutching its side in apparent agony. “Oh, I am slain!” it cried piteously.

 

  The Old Year whipped around, dropping to its knees to try and catch the Prince. “Wretched cur, what have you done, so to dispatch my only son?” it exclaimed. Turning to the circle of mummers, it placed its hands pleadingly to its breast and bowed in supplication. “Is there a man so wise in art that he can quicken fast the slain, defy the ordered season’s course and wake this youth to life again?”

 

  “Send for a Magician!” the knocker shouted.

 

  A short, wiry figure swaggered forward; a long black cape flapped out behind it as it moved. It held a sprig of holly in its gloved hand, and brandished the twig like a sword. “I am the Magician,” it rasped.

  “Oh, are you?” the knocker asked, amusement in his tone.

  The Magician shrugged, disgruntled. “Apparently. Why else am I wearing this ridiculous thing?”

 

  The group laughed appreciatively as the Old Year moved to scrutinize the other figure intently. “Have you anything within that cloak of yours that may raise my departed son?”

  The Magician seemed to grin beneath its mask, and put a hand slyly to its ribs. “I have a bottle in my breast, a liquor whose clear fire could turn a glacier to a running stream. ONe drop will save your stricken son.” it chanted. Then, it lifted its head and glanced around. “But first I’ll have my fee. Ten silver coins.”

  “Don’t look at me,” the Old Year protested. “I’m a smith; I only deal in iron.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame,” the Magician muttered. “Copper, then? I’ll take that.”

  “Fine, then.” Ten copper coins spilled from one covered palm to another as the ritual payment was made. The Old Year turned away then, staggering back to its fallen son. “Now try your skill, Magician,” it wailed. “Grant that new life may follow old when your spell weaves through this hall, to thrive despite the cold.”

 

  The Magician knelt, and pulled a brass cup out of its cloak. Holding the goblet over the Prince, it chanted, “Into your wounds the golden drops I pour from out the healing cup-” the Magician passed a hand over the body of the still Prince. “As death came to the Winter Prince, so may the Lord of Spring rise up.”

  
  The Prince was pulled to its feet, and spun in a quick, graceful circle, stopping with a slight stumble. Laughing, all thirteen mummers gathered close, and chanted as one. “Our rhyming is come to a close; we mean to play no longer here. May fortune fold this hearth and hold: so welcome the New Year!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest one so far, and it’s definitely one of my favorites. I hope you all liked it!
> 
> Mumming is an old custom that was practiced all over Europe. Groups of young men would travel from house to house, disguised and masked; they would dance, sing, recite plays or poems, and otherwise perform while the house’s inhabitants tried to guess their identities. If they could, the mummers were given food and drink. To make it more challenging, the players would stuff their costumes, speak in strange voices, cross-dress, etc. 
> 
> So...I used ‘it’ to defer to everyone’s anonymity, which will now be violated. The knocker was Will, the Old Year was Kate, the New Year was an OC (a butcher), the Winter Prince was Geoff, and the Magician was another OC (a footpad). The guy who doled out the swords was Roland, and the rest of our merry band was hidden within the company. 
> 
> Again, I don’t own the words of the pageant; Elizabeth Wein does. I had fun using it, though. 
> 
> That’s all from me! Ciao!


	30. Haunted Moors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six days to go! So...today we have some more Chaucer-musing, because I had absolutely no inspiration. I tried to make this a little creepy, so...I hope it worked! Also...I’m torturing Geoff again. I seriously can’t help it. :/

  
  


  Well was this desolate country named Scotland, for its darkness was total, deadly...utterly consuming. It subdued the vision into blind oblivion, magnified all sounds to  deafening pitch. The highland mist cloaked the midnight air in a black, plutonian chill, and the plaintive howl of the wind twisted the fog and the gossamer clouds into eerie, tortuous shapes.

 

  Geoff felt ineffably small as he traversed the haunted Caledonian moors: small and exposed, filled with a vague, insidious dread. Phantom eyes seemed to watch him from the impenetrable shadows; he could almost feel their predatory hunger. Ghoulish hands seemed to reach out to him, as though they wished to rend his soul from his body.

 

  He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare: a ghostly, hideous dreamscape from which there could be no escape. He had been foolish, so very _damnably_ foolish, to indulge the anxious whispers of his restless spirit like this...without so much as a single light! How had he thought that this place, this barren place of nebulous pall and shadow, would be at all kind to his jocund person? How had he been so naïve?

  
  His fear grew unbidden as the phantasmagoric gloom seemed to solidify around him, pressing in on him, choking him in its voracious pursuit of his life-force. With a choked cry, he turned and began to run, berating himself in one moment, yelling madly with fear in the next, as the forsaken spirits wailed at their loss upon the haunted moor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was fun…. I seriously creeped myself out at one point, but I hope you enjoyed reading it! 
> 
> Caledonia is the old Roman name for Scotland, which is still in use today. The name ‘Scotland’ is, in part, at least, named after the Greek word scotos. The Romans used the word scoti, or dark, to describe the Gaels. 
> 
> Scotland is rife with legends, and seems to contain many malicious or eerie spirits. For more information on a few of them, see Chapter 4. 
> 
> That’s all from me! Bye for now!


	31. Auld Lang Syne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 days to go, and a happy New Year’s Eve to everyone who isn’t already in the new year! Happy 2015 to the rest of you!
> 
> So...here’s the thing. I couldn’t resist using New Year’s Eve as inspiration, but in the Middle Ages, the new year was often celebrated in March, when winter turned to spring. Ergo, I’ve decided to make this chapter a modern AU, for the purpose of upholding more familiar traditions. I hope you enjoy!

  
  


  Fireworks showered the bright London sky with dazzling bursts of color, and loud music, bursting joyfully forth from thousands of homes and clubs, filled the city with effervescent sound.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The group of seven had been gathered at Will and Jocelyn’s apartment since late afternoon: eating Indian takeout (a meal that, Roland had said jokingly, was fit for a maharaja), playing Just Dance 2014 and Mario Kart on the Wii (the best way to ruin friendships), singing and dancing like sodding fools, and, of course, getting completely plastered on whisky (Kate’s contribution),punch (Jocelyn and Christiana’s contribution) and beer (Wat and Geoff’s contribution).

 

  New Year’s Eve was a time for celebration, they knew: a chance to usher out the old year with revelry and spirit, and welcome the new one with a bang. As small as this particular party was, no one present felt any sort of discontentment, for what better way was there to rejoice in the passing of years than with friends as close as family?

  
  


X X X

  
  


  “Any minute now,” Roland muttered, glancing at his watch for the thousandth time that day.

  “ _Allume la télé, vite_!” Christiana suddenly exclaimed. “ _Il y a seulement ix secondes avant que minuit_!”

 

  The telly was clicked on clumsily by Wat, whose less-than-steady hands promptly dropped the remote into the punch bowl. Seven pairs of eyes were glued to the countdown at the bottom of the screen, watching the numbers decrease as the reporter’s voice faded into the background.

 

  “TEN!” Over sixty-four million voices screamed out at once, their excitement building quickly. “NINE!” “EIGHT!” “SEVEN!” “SIX!” “FIVE!” “FOUR!” “THREE!” “TWO!” “ **ONE!!**!”

 

  Big Ben began to chime, and hands all over Britain were crossed over chests and linked, as sixty-four million voices began to sing.

  
  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was interesting...I’ve never done a modern AU before. It was fun.
> 
> All over the UK, the new year is celebrated with parties, fireworks, music, etc. At midnight, Big Ben begins to chime, and Auld Lang Syne (Scottish for ‘times gone by,’ apparently) is sung as people link hands. 
> 
> French translation time!
> 
> Allume la téle: Turn on the TV  
> Vite: Quick, or quickly  
> Il y a seulement dix secondes avant que minuit: There are only ten seconds until midnight
> 
> I might do something with this AU in the future...hmm….
> 
> That’s all from me! Happy 2015, all!


	32. Off On A Bender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I can’t count, apparently. Including today’s chapter, we have six days to go...sorry about that. 
> 
> We’re going back in time on this New Year’s Day, to the seemingly preferred 14th century...and we’re going back a more mature rating, since the tavern scene can get quite tawdry….

  
  


  “Oy! Pour me another ‘un, why dontcha, Botolf?”

  “C’mere, ya li’l wench, an’ lemme ‘ave a butchers a’ ye!”

  “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

  “ _Heeeeeeeeey_!!”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The tavern was full to bursting, echoing with shouts, chatter, jeers, laughter, clatters, blows, belches, and crashes, as befitting any lucrative evening. Serving wenches navigated the lively throng with ease, flirting shamelessly with the pissed, leering men that eyed them lecherously. Botolf, at the tap, kept the tankards flowing with gruff jocularity, and would occasionally leave his post in order to throw some arseholed customer out into the snowy street if he got too rowdy.

 

  It was this particular aspect of his proprietary duty that kept his bloodshot eyes fixed cautiously on the table in the back; they had been stirring up a bit of a ruckus all evening. Four of them there were: a tidy, dark-haired Scottish lass, a beefy, rotund Yorkman, a shirty, barmy redhead, and lanky blonde who looked to be full of beans.

 

  The lot of them were playing some sort of drinking game; they had been for a while now. As far as Botolf could tell, one would start a song, and the others would have to finish it line by line; anyone who missed a line had to take a drink. They all appeared rather plastered by this point, but the lassie seemed to be drinking her fellows under the table, and had drawn a rather large crowd…. Botolf couldn’t help but admit that it was quite an interesting sight.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  “In the boozer you’re a loser if the dice you’re shaking,” Kate began, shaking her head to clear it. “Guid _awmichtie_...your turn, Roland.”

  “You’ll get hurt...and lose your shirt...uh….” The large man trailed off, nearly going cross-eyed in an attempt to recall the words. “ _Shite_ -”

  “Yer ou’, mate!” Wat slurred, slapping his friend on the back. “‘Ave a drink, why dontcha?”

  

  With a slight grimace, Roland knocked back a tankard, grinning a bit as the cheers of the gathered crowd reached his buzzing ears. “Tha’s that!” he muttered. “Geoff, you...gotta finish i’....”

  “Very well, then!” the writer cried jovially. Without missing a beat, he sang, “You’ll get hurt and lose your shirt, sit there cold and quaking” After a pause, he took a large swallow of his ale and added, “Frozen, more like,” to the others’ amusement. “Have at it, Wat.”

  “Righ’!” Not to be outdone, the fiery squire bolted his entire tankard in one go, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a satisfied belch. “Tha’s more like it! Uh…. Lady Luck, your gifts are bad, you trick us, then you make us mad...bugger i’ all, why’d ya ‘ave t’ gimme th’ long ‘un, eh? ‘S no’ fair!”

  “Well, I can’t bloody well help where you’re sitting, now, can I?” Geoff retorted.

  “Aye, wot’re ye waitin’ fer?” a man called out. “Finish th’ line!”

  “Piss off!” Wat shouted, staggering to his feet and knocking his stool over. “I’ll finish when I like, ya see tha’ I won’t! Ya can’t tell me wot t’ do!”

  

  The other man, a short, burly bloke, stepped up to Wat just as unsteadily, holding his calloused hands out in front of him. “Yer gettin’ awful brassed, there, mate. I’m jus’ sayin’-”

  “Yeah, well, I don’ give a witch’s teat wot yer sayin’, ya git!” Wat snarled, grabbing the man’s collar.

  “Hey!” Kate surged forward, grabbing her sloshed companion by the shoulder. “Git aff him, Wat; he haesna done ocht t’ ye!”

  “I don’ bloody _care_! ‘E-”

  “WAT!” Geoff and Roland sobered quickly enough, reaching around Kate to try and pry the enraged redhead off of his hapless victim, who was kicking out quite viciously at his assailant. A few other men moved to join the brawl, some moving to help separate the two, and others going to punch at Wat or the other fellow, needing no other excuse for the violence.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  “HEY!”

 

  The crowd gradually stilled at Botolf’s booming shout...all but Wat and the short bloke, who continued to grapple angrily on the stained floor, shouting and swearing like there was no tomorrow.

 

  With an exasperated growl, Botolf stalked right into the fray, yanking the two apart and picking Wat up by the back of his tunic with one strong hand; the other man rolled away, choking and retching as he tried to recover. With ill-concealed ire, Botolf dragged Wat to the door and forcibly threw him out, giving him a kick to the side for good measure. Turning back around, he pointed at Kate, Geoff, and Roland and arched his thick eyebrows.

 

  “You three tha’ were with ‘im! Get outta here!”

  “But-” Geoff protested.

  “I don’ give a damn if you’s sober or not; get out!” Never mind that they had paid well...they had disturbed the tavern too much.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  “Well done, Wat.”

  “Huh? What’d I do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a lot of fun. :) This chapter was partly based on the post-credits scene in AKT, in which these four play a drinking game that Kate wins and Wat does terribly at. 
> 
> I imagine Wat to be a rather violent drunk; it sort of suits his personality. Geoff would be a talkative drunk, Kate would be...a bit giggly and boisterou, and Roland would be the only sober one…. 
> 
> Botolf the tavern-keeper is another spontaneous OC; again, you’re welcome to use him if you ask. 
> 
> Drinking was one of the most popular evening pastimes in medieval times. People would gather at the home of whoever happened to brew some ale (or an inn, of they were wealthier), and could get three gallons of ale for a penny. Brawls and other such mishaps were rather regular occurrences. 
> 
> The song that they sing is a 13th century drinking song...I don’t know the title…. 
> 
> Translation time! British slang is marked with a B, and Scottish is marked with an S.
> 
> Butchers (B): Look  
> Pissed (B): Drunk  
> Arseholed (B): Extremely drunk  
> Tidy (B): Attractive or sexy  
> Shirty (B): Bad-tempered  
> Barmy (B) : Crazy  
> Full of beans (B): Full of energy, maniacal  
> Plastered (B): Drunk  
> Guid awmichtie (S): God almighty  
> Brassed (B): Fed up or pissed  
> Sloshed (B): Drunk  
> Git aff him (S): Get off him  
> Haesna (S): Hasn’t  
> Ocht (S): Anything
> 
> That’s all from me! Bye!


	33. Skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Five days to go, I’m afraid...and I’m out of ideas again. Still, I found the topic of today’s chapter to be rather amusing, and I hope you enjoy!

  
  


  Will strapped the cow shinbones to his boots with undisguised delight, and quickly bent to help Jocelyn with hers. Roland, gentleman that he was, was doing the same for Christiana, while Wat, Geoff, and Kate had been left to tend to themselves...although Wat had tried to assist Kate, and had gotten punched in the stomach for his efforts.

 

  The air was still and frigid that day, and the English countryside was whitened with hoary frost. the clouds seemed pregnant with snow, and sporadic flurries lent a magical air to the frozen pond at which the group was gathered. The area was secluded- Geoff and Kate had found it the previous night- and there seemed not to be another soul about for miles...the youthful group was alone in their skating.

 

  They took to the ice with varying degrees of proficiency. Jocelyn and Christiana were predictably graceful, gliding about like swans with the ease of long practice. Christiana, therefore, took it upon herself to aid Roland, whose balance was less than admirable. Will, when he had tired of skating arm-in-arm with his love, engaged Wat in a rather vicious bout of ice-jousting, resulting in copious amounts of laughter and bruises. Kate would have joined them, but she found it far more amusing to watch...and she enjoyed seeing Geoff flounder, as well; the writer’s awkward height was working against him, and he spent more time on his arse than on his feet.

  
  Really, the scene was quite merry, fraught with laughter, snow, crashes, and banter. The magic in the air seemed to be woven right through the group of seven, as they skated contentedly upon the frozen pond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun...wholly unexpected, but fun all the same. :)
> 
> Ice skating was actually quite a popular winter pastime, even if it was mostly a child’s sport. People would strap cow’s shinbones to their shoes for skates, and games like ‘ice-jousting’ were often played to spice things up.
> 
> If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be immensely grateful if people contributed some ideas...I’m broke. Again. Anyway, that’s all! See y’all tomorrow!


	34. A Carola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 days to go! So...I’d like to thank MrsCuddles for today’s chapter idea; your help was greatly appreciated, Mel! This one’s for you!

The ring of dancers was large indeed, as young and alike paused in their activities to join the carol-dance, smiling at the applause of the ragged crowd that had gathered. Sir William Thatcher stood proudly at the center, his lean, strong form light and bold against the dark, snowy evening sky, his golden hair touched to radiance by sputtering candlelight from windows, and a wide, white smile on his rugged, youthful face.

 

  “The holly and the ivy when they are both full grown,” he sang, his voice ringing out deep and clear. “Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.”

 

  Around him, the circle of dancers lifted their own voices in the familiar lilting chorus, stirring hope in the hearts of all who listened.

 

  “The rising of the sun, and the running of the deer; the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting song, that. Again, I credit the idea to MrsCuddles.
> 
> The carola, or carol dance, is an old tradition that dates back to the 12th century. It consisted of a circle of dancers who would join hands as they sang; a leader would sing a verse, and the rest would sing the chorus. 
> 
> There are no surviving lyrics of any actual carola songs, but ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ was the closest I could get. Holly and ivy, apparently, were associated with male and female fertility, and such songs represented the cycle of nature. 
> 
> The phrase ‘the running of the deer’ referred to ‘deer running,’ which was once a mid-winter hunting ritual, but became known as a dance. Eight men, wearing antlers upon their faces, accompanied by the folk Fool, the man-woman, the Hobby Horse, and the Boy Hunter, would move through towns, bringing luck. The tune they danced to was the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, which is actually a very cool song.
> 
> That’s all from me! See you tomorrow!


	35. Haunted Moors Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 days left! So...surprise, surprise; I’m early again!
> 
> Um...yeah. In case you couldn’t tell by the title, I was out of ideas again. I credit this to zagara, who suggested a multi-chapter thing with Haunted Moors. Besides, the weather here is so creepy and dark and beautiful right now, I couldn’t resist. 
> 
> Thanks to zagara for reviewing, and a thousand apologies to poor Geoff...again.

The moor was endless, timeless: a sick, twisted labyrinth of dark tracks and clutching brambles that was somehow fluid and never-changing all at once. He ran blindly, and the fog seemed to thicken around him, pressing insidiously against his trembling form as though trying to crush him in its deadly embrace, make him a permanent part of its fuliginous essence. The cries of the wind, depraved and tortured, deafening to his distrait ears, rose loud and long, only to fall away into a silence more ominous than any scream could be.

 

  He was delirious, trapped in a chimerical abyss of dark fear...more so now than ever before. There truly was no way to quit this place; he would be doomed to wander here, a lone human soul amidst a sepulchre of malevolent demons, until the interminable night at last gave way to the rays of unfathomable hope that were the first lights of dawn….

 

  They had to come sometime. He was sure he would perish if they did not...if they left him at the mercy of the haunted moor for eternity….

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark and eerie, just the way I like it. :) I enjoyed delving a bit deeper into the madness wrought by the moor, and I hope you did, too! 
> 
> Remember: this is what results when I have no ideas. See you tomorrow!


	36. Esquissant le Soleil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 days to go! So, we’re back to lighter stuff after yesterday’s venture into the heart of madness, and the weather, frigid though it is, is bright and sunny to match! Weird….

  
  


  The pallid winter sunlight glinted brilliantly off of the delicate icicles that hung like frozen _larmes_ from the glass-like branches of the trees, making them gleam like pure _diamant_. Droplets of water ran slowly down the scintillating crystal ice, melting in the meager warmth afforded by the blinding sunlight _du jour glacé._

  
  The stick of charcoal that Christiana clutched swept quickly and deftly over the cracked pages of the parchment _cahier_ that the _écrivain_ had made for her, shading curves, edges, and drops with a delicate wash of gray. The bright gleams and deep shadows of the _stalactites de glace_ grew still and proud before her eyes as she sketched, capturing the beautiful winter’s tears _pour éternité._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Christiana! I really think I’ve been neglecting her, as she’s really the only one who hasn’t gotten her own chapter. Thus, her skill with a needle gave way to skill with a pencil.
> 
> French translation time!
> 
> Esquissant le soleil: Sketching the sun  
> Larmes: Tears  
> Diamant: Diamond  
> Du jour glacé: Of the frigid day  
> Cahier: Notebook  
> Écrivain: Writer  
> Stalactites de glace: Icicles  
> Pour éternité: For eternity
> 
> Again, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. 
> 
> This is the last time I’ll be able to say, “See you tomorrow!” Sad, isn’t it? Okay, not really. :)


	37. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAND we’re done! This is officially the last chapter! I wish everyone a wonderful Epiphany, even those who don’t celebrate it. That said, the twelve days...and this story...are finally at an end.

  The day’s holy feast had come and gone, bringing a bittersweet contentment to those that partook of it as they celebrated the holiday’s end. Songs had been sung, prayers had been chanted, and the season’s greenery had been cut down and cast aside, forgotten until the next winter’s spirits came round once more.

 

  When all was said and done, scores of men, women, and children gathered in the southern apple groves, dancing before the trees as the wassail Kings and Queens led the processions to the hearts of the orchards.

 

  “Wassail! wassail! all over the town, our toast it is white and our ale it is brown; our bowl it is made of the white maple tree; with the wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee.”

 

  The Queens were lifted into the cracking boughs, and brought dripping toast, soaked in the warm wassail, out of their clay cups, hanging the bits on the branches as a gift to the spirits of the trees, in hopes of a prosperous harvest in the new year.

 

  “Here’s to thee, old apple-tree, whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, and whence thou mayst bear apples enow! Hats-full! Caps-full! Bushel, bushel sacks-full! And my pockets full, too! Hurrah!”

  “ _Hurrah_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it; a little of everything to close out the year.
> 
> The ‘holy feast’ is the Feast of the Epiphany, which celebrates the visit of the magi to Jesus (in the Western world), or the baptism of Christ in the Jordan River (in the Eastern world). 
> 
> Wassailing is a tradition that dates back to the Middle Ages, involving singing and toasting the health of the apple trees in hopes of a good harvest; for more information, see Chapter 13. Each ceremony has the same basic structure. A wassail King and Queen will lead a procession in a song and dance, and the Queen will be lifted into the boughs, hanging wassail-soaked toast on the branches as a gift to the trees; the youngest boy can also perform this duty.
> 
> The song that the procession sings is from the medieval carol The Gloucestershire Wassail; the chant is...I don’t know what it’s from. :/
> 
> That’s all from me...for good! Okay, that’s not true. Still, I’ve enjoyed this road immensely, and I hope you have, too! Peace out!

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I had a lot of fun doing the research for this. I discovered that:  
> 1\. Meat was preserved by drying or salt-curing it, and smoking it afterwards.  
> 2\. Smoking was usually done in smokehouses, enclosed structures with one door and no windows.  
> 3\. The smoking process took about two weeks.  
> 4\. Christmas trees go WAY back.  
> 5\. Greenery included mistletoe and holly, to dispel evil spirits.
> 
> I will take suggestions for later chapters, and I will (hopefully) update every day. :)


End file.
